


Neither a Guest Nor a Trespasser Be

by beetle



Series: An Age of Marvels [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, dragon - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst, Angst and Feels, Apologies, Banter, Barkspawn Loves Everyone, Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, Forgiveness, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Grey Wardens, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Warden's death, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, Multi, Past-Alistair/Female Amell Warden/Zevran Arainai, Polyamory, Reconciliation, Reunions, Second Chances, Smut, Zevistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-06 05:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: After helping to quash the first Blight in a thousand years, then being exiled from his homeland,andlosing the loves of his life, Alistair Amell has moved on as best he can. He’s raising twin children on his own and trying not to dwell on the past. Unfortunately, the past is about to turn up on his doorstep, with figurative hat in hand. And bearing all the memories, regrets, and heartache—the lost love—that Alistair has become so adept at ignoring.This first, seven-chapter fic is complete but for final editing (as of 01.17.2018) and I’ll be posting one chapter per day (through 01.23.2018). And I’ve already started the next fic in the series (smut, ahoy).





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts), [inbarati](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbarati/gifts), [littleleotas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleleotas/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern Thedas AU, set almost a millennium (8:89 Marvel) after Dragon Age: Origins; eleven years after the first Blight in over eight centuries was stopped in its tracks; and almost a decade after the death of the Warden. Child OCs. Barkspawn. Past polyamory. Some angst, some smuts. Continuing and shared grief. Reunion . . . and possible reconciliation, maybe? _Definitely_ fruit-snacks, granola, and hot beverages, though. Title from the Shartan riddle.
> 
> **Addendum: There's now a seventh chapter, because of expansion on smut and angst, so . . . yeah. But this fic's going to end at lucky seven, for sure. Deuces.**

**Mid-Cloudreach, 8:89MA; Wycome, Free Marches**

**I**

 

“. . . and I’d name _my_ nug _Princess_!”

 

“ _Princess_? Really? That’s a crap name for _anything_ , but especially a stupid, old nug.”

 

“Yeah, well, _your face_ is a crap name for what really looks like your _arse_!”

 

An incredulous, amused beat, then a wearied, withering rejoinder: “You _do_ realize we’re twins, right? Which means if I have an arse-face, then so do you.”

 

“Nuh-uh! We’re _fraternal_ twins, so, _your_ face may look like your arse, but that doesn’t mean _mine_ does! In fact, _my face_ is bloody well-put-together!”

 

“On Opposite Day.”

 

“I’ll opposite _your_ bloody _arse-face_!”

 

“And _I’ll_ set all your socks on fire, again.”

 

“And _I’ll_ coat all your maths and science homework in steak-sauce and feed it to Barkspawn. _Again_.”

 

 _That_ was good for a horrified gasp, and for knocking Alistair Amell’s wandering mind out of its woolgathering and depositing it firmly in the moment. He blinked, squinting up at the persistent, lowering cloud-cover, then at the nearby intersection of River Road and Casper Drive. It was, as ever, largely unpopulated by either private or public transportation.

 

Alistair and the twins were half a street away from the school bus-stop and the bus itself was, in fact, still within viewing-distance. It trundled unhurriedly east along River Road, followed by a flashy, late model T-BIE hybrid car. West-bound on River Road, was a motorcyclist leading one of the ubiquitous WyCAT buses. Both were obviously on their way out of the suburbs and back to the relatively small, but thriving city-center.

 

“Hang on. Have I heard correctly?” Alistair interrupted his two bickering nine-year-olds, as the three of them reached the corner. The twins were obviously continuing a discussion they’d been having during the ride home, but they fell silent, blinking wide, innocent eyes up at him. _Suspiciously_ innocent, and especially from _his_ two precocious hellions. Alistair sighed and glanced up at the overcast, rainy-gray sky for patience. Or perhaps assistance. But when none was forthcoming, he tugged his children onward around the corner, by the hand, then lead them down Casper Drive. “What’s all this about you naming a nug, Winnie? Also, _stop swearing,_ the both of you. _Also-addendum_ : we are _not_ getting a nug, for the eight thousandth time!”

 

“But, Daddy,” Winnie began, pouting up at Alistair, clutching at his right hand with both of hers and handily stopping their progress. Her pointy-peaky-precious face was on the cusp of truly _epic_ manipulative wibbling.

 

At Alistair’s other side, holding onto Alistair’s left hand, Duncan rolled his eyes near-audibly. “And the award for Best Drama Queen goes to. . . .” he muttered, with a put-upon, exasperated sigh.

 

Alistair repressed a snort and turned back to Winnie. She was still working that pout-face for all she was worth, her topaz-gold eyes clear and emotive, just like her mother’s. Alistair’s heart stuttered and clenched, before releasing with a silent, melancholy sigh of its own.

 

Both twins, despite Winnie’s assertions, looked _exactly_ like their mother. Though, Winnie’s face was finer-featured and more delicate than Audra’s had been—truer to the Amell-type, than the De Marmolo-type. Duncan’s face was rather more angular and stubborn, with a starkness of bone-structure that hinted at neither of Audra’s parents.

 

In certain lights, one could see the other half of his parentage . . . especially since, in _those_ lights, his eyes shaded to topaz- _bronze_ , rather than Audra’s lighter, more golden tone.

 

“Er, sweetness, you _know_ that if we got a nug, that Barkspawn might very well try to, erm, nibble on him,” Alistair reminded Winnie delicately. This time, the wibble was for real and on Alistair’s other side, Duncan snickered.

 

“Barkspawn would _never_!” Winnie insisted, righteously indignant at such an aspersion cast upon the family dog. Duncan practically dissolved into giggles at that.

 

“ _Probably_ not. At least if you _didn’t_ bathe the nug in steak-sauce, like it was my homework!” he wheezed out, doubled over with laughter.

 

“You are a _horrible_ boy, Duncan Amell, and I _hate you_!” Winnie hissed, righteously _furious_ , now. She had her mother’s temper, as well as her looks. Duncan, however, had always been a cooler-headed, occasionally calculating child, with neither his mother’s fiery temper, nor Alistair’s rather dry brand of anxious, even-handed diplomacy.

 

“Wynne-darling, _hate_ is a terribly strong word,” Alistair reminded her, not for the first time. Winnie huffed and tossed her halo of corkscrew, caramel curls, gold-toned eyes flashing just like Audra’s used to when she was fighting . . . flinging fists or spells at enemies. Though Audra’s cool-sepia complexion hadn’t shown up a flush often, _Winnie’s_ warm-ochre skin was frequently deepened to a ruddy russet when her emotions were high.

 

The same could be said for Duncan, though _his_ flushes were far rarer—were _blushes_ of embarrassment, or utter mortification at some perceived imperfection or flaw of his own.

 

“Hate _is_ a terribly strong word, Daddy. And _I’m_ a terribly strong _woman_ ,” Winnie insisted, her voice all stone and fire. Alistair’s brows lifted, and he smiled as his heart clenched and sighed again.

 

“Yes, you are, my dear. And I love you _very_ much. So does Duncan.”

 

“ _Please_ don’t put words in my mouth, Dad,” Duncan complained with weary gentility. Alistair squeezed his hand and started them all walking again. And when Winnie leaned forward to peer around Alistair to stick her tongue out at Duncan—and Duncan, in a moment of rare, childlike behavior, also stuck his tongue out in reply—Alistair pretended not to notice. Though he couldn’t quite repress his smile.

 

Despite the sporadically rainy spring day, the walk home was, as ever, a pleasant one. Their small home on Casper Drive was a mere five blocks from the intersection. The street, itself, was lined with birch trees—the silver _and_ downy species—ash, and poplars, planted in the green swatches between the kerb and the sidewalk-proper. The houses were cozy and detached, with a bit of green separating each. Most were built of brick, in shades of red. All were fronted by neatly manicured lawns and/or gardens. Some rare few had detached garages, though even in such a firmly middle-class neighborhood, most couldn’t afford or didn’t want to spend money on a personal vehicle when WyCAT was both affordable, frequent, and nearby.

 

Residences—and the odd garages—were set back a discreet distance from the rain-wet sidewalk and similarly-drenched road.

 

With the intersection behind them a bit, the already modest noises of pre-rush hour traffic were a dwindling, nonintrusive susurrus. And certainly not of as much import to Alistair as listening to his children go from vigorous quarreling, to taking “monster” steps and hopping from puddle to puddle while giggling with each other. Winnie was, of course, the ringleader and enthusiast, but Duncan, still more child than elderly curmudgeon—for the moment, anyway—was quick to follow her.

 

Guffawing, Alistair let himself be haphazardly dragged all the way to the house, one eye on the twins’ fluffy curls and one ear on their laughter: Winnie’s wild, unrestrained cackles and Duncan’s dignified chuckles.

 

The other eye and ear he kept, out of habit, on the world around them. Partly on the sky, which was still threatening yet-more rain—the perils of spring in Wycome, alas . . . and the Free Marches, in general—and partly on all the familiars and particulars of a common weekday afternoon.

                                                                                                                             

And, so it was that he spotted the person—standing on the lowest of the three stone steps that demarcated the half of the front walk that was closer to the sidewalk, from the half that was closer to the house—waiting on their property the moment he spotted said property.

 

Wary and slowing his tugged-along gait, Alistair frowned, and watched the person on their walk watch them approach. It wasn’t long before Winnie and Duncan noticed Alistair’s hesitation and staring, and followed his gaze.

 

“There’s someone on our walk, Daddy,” Winnie announced, curious and unconcerned as she stopped hopping, but still tugged on Alistair’s hand to get him moving at a more acceptable speed. Duncan, always warier and more suspicious, began to drag his feet, as well.

 

“Well, Barkspawn’s not letting up a ruckus,” he noted, frowning, too. He clutched at Alistair’s hand just a bit tighter.

 

“But Barkspawn _never_ lets up a ruckus, though,” Winnie dismissed.

 

“My point,” Duncan replied, and Alistair nodded absently, trying to make out more of their visitor from a distance, than just a dark, hooded pea coat—hood very much up—dark trousers, and boots. Their arms were crossed over their chest and their head was tipped down low. Practically resting on their collar bone, but Alistair could feel their regard and attention like the sun in summer: warm, yes. But still of questionable beneficence with prolonged exposure.

 

But, as Duncan had pointed out so incisively, Barkspawn hadn’t let up a “ruckus.” Had never let up such in the _twins’_ experience. Though Alistair could easily recall, back during the frantic, chaotic two years before the advent of the twins, that the Mabari had knowing when to “ruckus” down to a fine art.

 

This stranger didn’t mean them ill, or Alistair and the twins would’ve heard the “ruckus” from the bloody bus-stop, never mind within a single street of the house.

 

As they drew closer, the children began taking guesses as to who their visitor might be, immediately dismissing the post-man, citing lack of uniform and being several hours too late to be delivering the daily mail. They also dismissed the likelihood of the person being a member of the Wycome constabulary for similar reasons. And clearly, their visitor was _not_ an Andraste’s Witness (“his clothes are far too nice and flattering,” was Duncan’s insightful reasoning, and Winnie hummed, then agreed).

 

Alistair, though not yet alarmed—but, as ever, _prepared_ to be alarmed—refrained from freeing his hands, or shoving the twins behind him. Refrained from drawing his only memento of his late Warden-Commander, Duncan Grey, sheathed and stashed at the small of his back.

 

The ancient, but still deadly dagger was—even twelve years after Duncan’s death—regularly sharpened by Alistair. And he still carried it wherever he went. For aside from knowing far better than most just how handy a good dagger could be, Alistair also took comfort from having the reminder of his mentor as close as a quick reach. As close as his skin.

 

He sighed silently, as he cemented the decision not to draw Duncan’s dagger. Life-long training with various weaponry had made Alistair adamant against drawing a dagger as a threat. Only as a promise.

 

And he had no interest in keeping such a promise in front of his children.

 

By now, they were much closer to the house—just one property away from it—and the visitor had tilted their head up a bit. Just enough for Alistair to make out tanned skin, a quirky-familiar smirk, and a stubborn jaw and chin.

 

“Well, _I_ don’t think it’s _Serah_ Grandjean, anyway,” Winnie decided firmly. Duncan heaved another overburdened sigh.

 

“I never _said_ you thought it was _Serah_ Grandjean,” he retorted.

 

“I _know_ you didn’t, I’m just saying it’s _not!_ ”

 

“Well . . . I agree, then.”

 

“Good!”

 

Both children huffed haughtily at each other, then fell silent, giving the visitor their undivided attentions, now that their Orlesian ex-pat neighbor, one Jacotin Grandjean, was entirely ruled-out.

 

But Alistair had frozen, stock-still, halfway past their next door-neighbor, Karl Roesch’s, property—and thus half a property from their own. He could feel his jaw drop in a gape as the visitor looked right at him, straight-on, unfolding rangy arms to push back the dark hood that had obscured his face.

 

His handsome, _familiar_ face.

 

“Hmph, he’s _definitely_ not _Serah_ Grandjean, just like I said,” Winnie crowed triumphantly, and Duncan made a disgusted noise, but held his peace. Then he glanced up at Alistair, frowning. Alistair could feel both gaze and frown, like cool moonlight on his face.

 

“Is something wrong, Dad?” Duncan asked solemnly, quietly. Something in his tone was enough to drag Winnie’s intent attention from their visitor, to Alistair’s face, as well.

 

“You look _very_ pale, Daddy. Even for _you_ ,” Winnie said with her usual lack of tact, but sounding worried. And Alistair wanted to reassure her and Duncan, that despite his apparent pallor and whatever unpleasantly startled expression was on his face, he was fine.

 

He was fine.

 

Alistair Amell was. . . .

 

. . . not fine. Very suddenly _not at all fine_.

 

Their visitor, still smirking, and quirking one blond brow, was tanned and square-jawed. Possessed of a vague air of danger and a starkly abstract tattoo of two curving lines that ran from his left brow, along his prominent cheekbone, down to an inch left of his pouty-perfect mouth. The arms he crossed over his chest were in keeping with his blade-spare leanness, but strong-looking, nonetheless. All fluid muscle lashed to surprisingly dense bone.

 

The visitor tilted his head to his left, studying Alistair and the twins with a show of amusement and happy disbelief. His slim shoulders were tense, however.

 

Even in the overcast, gray light of this gloomy, second Friday of Cloudreach—the _third_ consecutive rainy day, of the fourth _week_ of an _unusually_ chilly spring—the visitor’s cornsilk-pale, shoulder-length hair shone . . . practically _glowed_.

 

Alistair knew from past experience that—by the end of Bloomingtide or the beginning of Justinian, at the latest—even sporadic exposure to direct and consistent sunlight would turn that cornsilk to white-gold, like early-morning sunlight in mid-Solace. . . .

 

By the time Alistair could tear his gaze from that gleaming hair, and after it bounced from that smirk, to those keen, burnished-bronze eyes under dark-gold brows, Alistair realized he’d not only started moving again, but had almost completely closed the brief distance between himself and his family, and their most unexpected visitor.

 

“Hullo!” Winnie piped up brightly as she led the way up the rain-sluiced walk, to the steps that bisected it. Alistair didn’t let her tug him along any faster, but neither did he stop her.

 

Whatever troubles their _visitor_ might mean, he would never—purposely—mean them to the twins . . . never to _Audra’s_ children.

 

“Well,” their visitor said, his low, Antivan-accented voice half-chuckle as he shifted and stood arms akimbo. Other than a charmed and wistful sort of melancholy, Alistair couldn’t read that gaze. He’d _never_ been able to, except when he’d been _meant_ to read it, which had been rarely. “Hullo to you, too, my lovely little lady! Alistair, my old friend, you’ve come up in the world, keeping such radiant and _gorgeous_ company as this!”

 

Winnie giggled, and Duncan tugged on Alistair’s hand. When Alistair met that apprehensive little scowl, he tried on a smile that felt like it might be the biggest lie he’d ever told his son. Which would certainly be saying something.

 

“Who _is_ he?” Duncan asked, because _of course_ , he’d noticed that jocular “Alistair, my old friend.” There was little Duncan _didn’t_ notice, even if he couldn’t always, through lack of age and experience, decipher it.

 

Alistair forced himself to prop-up the smile and not heave another sigh. Forced himself to compound the maybe-lie he’d already started telling, with his attempt at a reassuring facial expression.

 

“He’s . . . an old friend, Duncan,” he said, squeezing the small, clammy hand in his left one. Winnie’s hand, in his right, was warm and dry. “Of mine and your mother’s, from . . . before you and Winnie were born.” Duncan’s scowl didn’t change a tic, except to possibly deepen, and Alistair did, at last, sigh. He shook his head and looked up—looked ahead, though not far. Winnie had stopped her dragging and tugging, and was gazing up at their visitor, beaming her unreserved smile. _Audra’s_ smile.

 

That smile was returned, with pained, but surprisingly sincere affection.

 

Then those burnished-bright eyes left Winnie’s little face and settled on Alistair’s. The smile and affection faltered for a few moments, before being cranked right back up, though with sincerity and affection Alistair _now_ found quite doubtful.

 

“Hullo, Alistair,” their visitor said warmly, but also uncertainly, as well as with heavy, poorly-masked gravity. Alistair bit his lip then shook his head, grateful for the temporary numbness of his body—and his heart—in the face of a decade of detachment and distance thrown down in mere minutes.

 

“Good afternoon, Warden-Commander Arainai,” he replied stiffly, nonetheless relieved for the sake of his children—and maybe for his own small, but battered sense of pride—that there was no quaver or crack to give him away. As if there was _anything left to give_ underneath Alistair’s sudden numbness and shock, and the well-practiced front of stoicism he’d been wearing for almost ten years. “What brings you to our humble home?”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from the Warden-Commander of Antiva _and_ the terrible timing of Nature, Herself, conspire to derail Alistair's entire life. Not to mention the rest of his afternoon. Plus, said Warden-Commander probably still goes commando under his clothes . . . which is _not at all_ a wrecking-ball of a realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: No new chapter notes or warnings.

**II**

 

Their visitor, _the_ Warden-Commander of Antiva, sighed, those strong, only _slightly_ narrow shoulders slumping a bit. But his gaze never left Alistair’s. Whatever flickered in it was too fast and too shielded for Alistair to parse, though. As ever.

 

“A decidedly terse and cool welcome from a man whose effusiveness and warmth I remember with such . . . fondness,” the Warden-Commander said with soft, but deep disappointment. Alistair didn’t know what to say or do in response at first, so he shrugged. Then cleared his throat.

 

“Times change, Warden-Commander, as do people. But allow me to start over: I _warmly and effusively_ enquire as to what brings you so far from your assigned protectorate?” he asked, his voice still even and reserved. Polite, but disinterested. Another flicker moved through those eyes and across that stark-strong, handsome face, before both settled behind a jaunty and unconcerned expression.

 

“Only a matter of utmost importance could drag me away from my beautiful Antiva, as you well know, _Serah_ Amell,” was the smooth, easy reply. Alistair’s brows lifted.

 

“Something ranks higher in _Zevran Arainai’s_ priorities than his precious _Antiva_?” Alistair snorted, then winced at the noticeable bitterness of his tone. Whatever emotional morass his front of indifference and wall of numbness were protecting him from, his _voice_ seemed bound and determined to blow his cover. “Now, _that_ is quite the wonder-icing on the marvel-cake!”

 

“Indeed,” the Warden-Commander agreed, his dazzling smile slipping . . . then gone. He glanced up at the sky, then sighed as he met Alistair’s gaze once more. He was very nearly grim. “It . . . has taken me far longer than it should have to realize how badly skewed my priorities had become and how far they’d strayed from . . . what I once aspired to.”

 

Alistair blinked and remained silent, waiting for a point to emerge from the Warden-Commander’s reluctant preamble. Under the attention of Alistair and the twins—Duncan’s intent little scowl and Winnie’s bright, beaming curiosity—the Warden-Commander’s shoulders slumped a bit more and his brow furrowed.

 

“Alistair,” he began, his voice low and thick with whatever he was wrestling with saying. For a quickly-passing moment, Alistair’s own throat ached, as did his chest. But the moment _did_ pass quickly, and he was left numb again, in its aftermath.

 

“Why are you here, Zevran?” he heard himself ask, in a voice that was weary _beyond_ bitterness. “After all this time, why’ve you come?”

 

“Hmm, the perennial question, yes? _Why come to Wycome_?” the Warden-Commander tried out a smile and a chuckle, both of which were more failure than success. Then he, too, bit his lower lip, as pouty as Winnie’s. And to similar effect if that bittersweet pang starting up in Alistair’s chest again was any sign. But he made up for such a traitorous response by not letting his expression change or relax. The Warden-Commander cleared his throat again and sighed. “ _Right_. Ah, Zevran, you must _only_ lead with the _good_ puns! For shame!”

 

Alistair groaned quietly, half-disoriented by the supposedly laid-to-rest past careening into the present like a juggernaut. “Oh, Maker, preserve. Zevran—”

 

“ _Ooooh_ , I get it! _Why_ come to _Wy-come_!” Winnie exclaimed, giggling again, glancing back up at Alistair with sparkling, mirthful eyes. “He’s _funny_ , Daddy!”

 

“How in Thedas are _we_ related by _blood_?” Duncan wondered with more incredulity than dismay. Though there was plenty of that, too, as ever.

 

The Warden-Commander, meanwhile, was smirking, his left eyebrow sharply quirked as he studied Alistair’s surely aggrieved face.

 

“Right, then. Not exactly how I predicted this day would go, but. . . .” and Alistair trailed off, uncertain how to finish that sentence. The Warden-Commander’s smirk shifted subtly, into a wry, commiserating—companionable—smile.

 

“I’ve missed you _far_ more than I expected to, Alistair. And I . . . expected to miss you a _great deal_ ,” he said, warm again, and relieved, too. Alistair shivered and frowned, and couldn’t think of a reply that wasn’t either a telling truth or a _more telling_ lie. So, he opted for neither, and simply stepped over the question of whether _he’d_ missed the rakish, dashing bit of trouble fetched-up on his damp doorstep, or not.

 

“Of course, you missed me,” he agreed without inflection, which was probably plenty of inflection, in and of itself. “I imagine I played the straight-man to your jests better than just about anyone else was willing to.”

 

Another low chuckle and shift in expression, though both were brief. “I see you’ve held-on to that cynicism of yours. Smart man.”

 

“My cynicism _has_ served me well, yes.”

 

“So, I suppose you would make a point of _not_ believing me if I also said that I’m . . . _deeply_ sorry life hasn’t conspired to _mellow_ that cynicism in the past nine years?” Those golden brows lifted rather hopefully, and Alistair snorted.

 

“Considering that I didn’t even believe you when you said _hullo_ just now, yes, Warden-Commander. I _would_ make such a point. I respectfully remain a devoted skeptic regarding _everything_ you say or do.”

 

“Ah. I see,” was the delayed response, even-toned and light, but only on the surface. Those bronzy eyes seemed almost wounded . . . though that was leavened by what was clearly expectation and acceptance of Alistair’s response. “That . . . does not bode well for this little reunion, then.”

 

 _Agreed. Why are you_ here _?_ Alistair was about to ask again, only with far less in the way of politeness and patience, when the sky released a sudden torrent that soaked their clothes and plastered their hair in seconds. Winnie squeaked, Duncan swore, and they both dashed up the steps—past the chuckling and nimbly side-stepping Warden-Commander—and the walk, to huddle under the awning over the front door.

 

The Warden-Commander simply grinned and grinned, his shining eyes never shifting from Alistair’s grim, exasperated expression. His wet hair had already been rendered dark-gold from the rain, and was plastered to his face and head in braids, locks, and hanks. Between the grinning, and the bedraggled state of him, he looked to be no more than half his thirty-seven years.

 

Alistair shivered from the chill and damp— _mostly_ —and did his best not to fidget. He was entirely successful, and even managed to hold that bronze-bright gaze as if it now meant _nothing_ , and perhaps always had. And the more he held it, so impassively and disinterestedly, the more the Warden-Commander seemed uncomfortable and at a loss. The more his handsome face lost its confidence, if not that dazzling grin.

 

“So, ah,” the Warden-Comm— _Zevran-bloody-Arainai_ —said, just as sly and charming and ironic, as he’d been once upon a decade. Just as wickedly handsome and charismatic. Alistair’s in-drawn breath quaked, as did the exhalation that followed, and he had to admit to himself that his stolid front and protective wall weren’t long for this world. Not under the assault of remembrance and yearning, all resulting from the startling return of one of the loves of his life. “Am I to be invited in out of this deluge, where I can dry off and we can converse like civilized ex-comrades? Or has that famous Fereldan hospitality been exaggerated, as so many things in this world turn out to be?”

 

Rolling his eyes and sighing with gusty resignation—which certainly did _not_ hide equal measures of anxiety and anticipation—Alistair strode past Zevran, toward where the kids waited. He dug his keys out of his jeans pocket, forcing himself to breathe evenly and entertain no expectations. No hopes.

 

A few moments later the door was open, and the twins dashed into the small foyer, already kicking off their galoshes and throwing off their hooded rainslickers. They left a trail of splashed uniform-trousers, sodden socks, and soaked backpacks down the hall and up the stairs. Alistair watched them go with a tender smile, until they disappeared down the second-floor hallway.

 

Before he could turn and gesture for Zevran to precede him into the house, he could feel the other man’s approach, then his presence, radiant and intent, right behind him. Could sense the hovering and hesitant hand at his right shoulder, and preemptively jerked away. He stepped into the house first, manners and Fereldan hospitality be damned. “No outside-shoes past the foyer. I . . . I can sort you out some tracksuit bottoms and a shirt, and put your clothes in the dryer. Assuming whatever business brings you here will take more than a few minutes.”

 

“That would be a fair assumption, yes. Rather, I hope it would,” Zevran said, his voice soft and almost _meek_ . . . so much so, Alistair had to repeatedly tell himself that only a moron would believe a single thing this man said after . . . everything.

 

Just then, from the large backyard behind house, brief, excited, _elated_ barking started up. Alistair huffed and smiled. Even after all these years, any sort of precipitation—and, of course, the safe returns of his humans from their daily adventures—turned Audra’s aging, but still-friendly Mabari into the puppy he hadn’t been for the better part of fifteen years.

 

And no doubt, the keen-nosed and intelligent animal had already picked up Zevran’s scent. Remembered it, and was including the Warden-Commander in that quick welcome.

 

“Ah, I see you still have Barkspawn,” Zevran said, wondering and wistful, his charming grin settling into a pleased smile. Alistair frowned and met those searching eyes, holding them for eternal moments before responding.

 

“Of course, I do, Zev. He was Audra’s. I would _never_ leave behind or walk away from something she loved.”

 

Zevran’s gaze faltered and didn’t immediately return to Alistair’s wet, impassive face. “Alistair, you . . . that is, _I_ —”

 

“I haven’t had a chance to straighten-up, today, so please excuse the clutter,” Alistair said firmly, stonily, cutting off whatever Zevran was gearing up to say. He turned away, and kicked off his own soaked trainers and damp-clingy socks in the direction of the coatrack. But out of habit, he gathered the socks up, at least, and the twins’ dropped outerwear and clothing. The backpacks he left where the twins had dropped them. As he quickly picked things up, he couldn’t stop twiddling his clammy, anxious toes. Though that didn’t make them any warmer, or him any less tense. “Shall I get you those loaner-togs, then, so you don’t catch your untimely death?”

 

He suspected he wasn’t meant to hear Zevran’s soft, frustrated sigh over the shutting of the front door and engaging of the deadbolt. When Alistair, his arms full of children’s clothing, glanced briefly back at the other man, it was to see him toeing off his sturdy black boots and nudging them to the opposite wall, just next to the mail-table. By the time he looked up Alistair was already turning away again, hands clenching into squishy cloth and squeaky-slippery vinyl.

 

“That, ah—that sounds . . . yes, _thank you_ , Alistair. For your generosity and concern.”

 

 _Don’t thank_ me _, thank Audra._ Alistair strode off toward the small laundry-room, at the back of the house. “It’s hardly either, but then, you always _were_ one for overstatement and hyperbole, Zevran. Wait here a minute, and I’ll, erm, grab the loaner-togs so you can sit without leaving puddles and damp-spots on the furniture.”

 

#

 

When Alistair returned from the laundry room a few minutes later—himself changed into clean, dry tracksuit bottoms and a frayed, worn brown jumper—he was carrying a fluffy towel, a long-sleeved red t-shirt, and another pair of black trackies that’d shrunk from over-drying years ago, and which he only wore around the house.

 

They were rather tight on Alistair, but should be just about right on Zevran’s rangy-lean frame . . . if a bit long.

 

The man in question was already divest of his thick, hooded pea coat which—along with holstered sheaths containing Zevran’s well-made, but common Crow daggers, and Audra’s far-better and far-less-common dagger, the Gift of the Grey—was propped up against the wall near his boots. He was standing right where Alistair had left him, gazing bemusedly at a small painting of potted violets above the mail-table and smirking. His corded-muscular, illustrated arms were crossed over his chest, his unbranded black t-shirt riding up just enough to show a swatch of pale, taut waist. His black jeans weren’t, as he’d liked to wear them once upon a time, skinny, or even especially tight. The plain straight-legs were, in fact, a touch too loose.

 

 _Or_ , Alistair allowed, sizing up his guest’s profile, which wasn’t merely prominent, as ever, but _unusually_ sharp and stark, _perhaps he’s lost weight recently. And hasn’t been concerned enough with his appearance to buy clothing that fits more closely_.

 

Alistair frowned. Zevran Arainai _without—_ well-justified—vanity about his appearance was a night without stars.

 

Clearing his throat to announce his presence, Alistair approached Zevran unhurriedly, holding out the clothes when the other man turned to face him, smiling and somehow . . . lighter than he’d seemed just a few minutes ago. His wet, pale hair still clung to the sides of his face in wisps and hanks, and his eyes seemed to glow a beryl-like golden-brown.

 

“Again, thank you, my friend,” he said, taking the towel, first, and giving his head and face a vigorous, but brief ruffle-and-rub to get the excess rainwater. Then, the towel got dropped on his discarded coat, because Zevran Arainai had no concept of how tidiness worked.

 

Before Alistair—fighting a pensive, remembering smile—could point the way to the downstairs loo, Zevran had his t-shirt off and flung on the pile of damp cloth.

 

He was still _ridiculously_ gorgeous, physique-wise, because _of course, he was_. The rounded musculature of his shoulders, the broad, hard span of his upper-chest, and the tapering of his torso were still joltingly _mesmerizing_. Every inch of him revealed was fluid, conditioned _power_ , moving harmoniously under skin tanned only a few shades lighter than his face.

 

Zevran Arainai was—as ever he had been—all mouth-watering articulation and definition, enticing danger and grace. Quite unlike Alistair’s own still-conditioned, but significantly denser, brawnier build.

 

He was still so impossibly _smooth-looking_ , though probably some of that was because he was an elf. And because his body-hair blended in with his fair complexion. Alistair, too, was—unlike many men of Fereldan descent, and relative _only_ to _other_ Fereldan men—rather lacking in body hair. Eamon Guerrin had been known to declare of his young ward that this dearth of “winter-pelt” was surely a trait of his _mother’s_ bloodline, along with the nearly-patrician refinement of Alistair’s otherwise typically Fereldan, _typically Theirin_ features.

 

(Though not for lack of asking, Alistair _still_ had no clue at all who his mother or her people were. But as he grew older, he also grew less certain about wanting to find out. Which wasn’t exactly strange, considering who Alistair’s _father_ had been, and it was still Alistair’s _mother_ who was the more closely-guarded secret. At least from Alistair, himself.)

 

Distracted by all the tanned, touchable—tattooed—skin on display, Alistair only remembered to blink and breathe when Zevran’s clever, spidery fingers moved to the button of his fly.

 

For instants that oozed by like molasses in winter, Alistair could only gape and goggle at Zevran, who seemed to be moving in absent slow motion. He was frowning a little as he stared distractedly at the painting above the mail-table again. There was a furrowed line between his eyebrows and he was squinting, as if whatever he was _actually_ seeing wasn’t bloody violets.

 

This disrobing was not, it was plain, meant as a tease or enticement. But that didn’t stop Alistair’s mouth and throat from going dry, and his entire body from going utterly, absolutely haywire.

 

Heat and want, sudden, scorching, and undeniable, shot through Alistair’s body like live current. From core, to skin, and right back in, he was a man electrified and thrilled. As Zevran’s slow-motion fingers touched the waistband of his jeans, Alistair was willing to bet sovereigns to shortbread that the other man still went commando. He had no body-modesty whatsoever, as Alistair well-recalled. One of many legacies of growing up among whores and assassins. And Antivans.

 

But even though Alistair didn’t _really_ think finding out for certain about the smallclothes, or lack thereof, was the best idea—cats weren’t the only beasts to get done-in by too much curiosity—he simply didn’t have the words to halt those talented, gorgeous hands. Nor even the will to say them, had they been on the very tip of his tongue.

 

And perhaps, as with the aforementioned nosy felines, firsthand satisfaction of his curiosity would bring Alistair _right_ back. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, my dear friend. You know who you are . . . in every sense of the word.  
> ::glomps::
> 
> For you, I would squish _all_ the flying vermin, but _especially_ the pigeons  <3


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The striptease that’s really _not_. _Striptease-us Interruptus_. Simple, sibling squabbles that are more than they seem. The donning of the Dad-Hat. Old scars and new hurts. New scars and _old_ hurts. A gentle détente and—fond—snobbishness about teatime-preferences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Children fighting, name-calling, and being spiteful.

**III**

 

Fortunately, and not for the first time, Alistair was saved from his own worst instincts and spiraling stupidity by his children. Namely: Winnie’s triumphant war-whoop—her term for it, and so help him, Alistair had yet to find _another_ term that fit even half so well—sounded, followed by cackles a moment latter.

 

Both he and Zevran jumped, and started to reach for weapons with which they were no longer equipped, when a shrill scream also came from the second floor. They both winced and grimaced.

 

“ _The purple ones are miiiiiiiine_!” Duncan further shrilled, approaching supersonic in his distress. Both the loss of control and obvious expression of it were rare, and only Winnie ever seemed to inspire either in such intensity, or with any frequency. “You _know_ I like purple best and you _took them anyway_! Even though I would’ve let you have all the other colors!”

 

“Bawl-baby, bawl-baby, crying-over-stupid-pencils-baby!” Winnie crowed rather spitefully, which was also as rare as hens’ teeth. As she tended to do with Duncan, bringing out his best and worst, so Duncan often did with her. “What does it even _matter_ , Prissy-Pants?”

 

“We’ll see just what it matters when I turn everything you own to _ash_!” Duncan wasn’t supersonic, anymore, but low, loud, and snarling. This was rarest of all, but Alistair knew what it would undoubtedly lead to. Winnie, even when she was simply tone-deaf to her own obnoxiousness—ninety-three percent of the time—rather than being spiteful, never knew when to stop pushing Duncan. Alistair was used to that and had been for years, but the last thing they needed was a repeat of _last fall,_ with a bloody Warden-Commander in the house, no less.

 

Alistair half-turned toward the stairs, frowning thunderously, as if the twins could see him. _“Wynne Revka Amell! Duncan Ydallo Amell!”_

Dead-silence, now, from the second floor. In the backyard, even Barkspawn had stopped his random, excited barks and yips.

 

“How many purple pencils are there, Wynne?” Alistair demanded sternly.

 

There was a discomfited beat, then, “six,” was the half-sullen, half-chastened reply.

 

“And she took _all. Six_!” Duncan growled, his voice dropped at least two octaves. Alistair faced the stairs and took a few steps toward the wide landing-step.

 

“Tattler!”

 

“Bloody. _Half-wit_!”

 

Another silence, this one loaded, like the moments between the ragings of a worsening storm.

 

“ _Daddeeeee_!” Now, Winnie was the one screeching and probably crying, too. The girl had a tough hide, except for when it came to her inability to keep up with her brother—and a good many of her peers—scholastically. Even with individualized lesson-plans and accommodations, and despite Winnie’s quick, curious mind and endless determination, she did not flourish in common learning environments. Duncan, however, seemed to learn and pick up academic knowledge as if through osmosis, no matter the teaching method. “Did you hear what he _saaaaaaaid_?”

 

“Even if he didn’t, it’s not like he needs anything but your shite marks in _everything_ to know a _bloody half-wit_ when sees on—”

 

“ _Duncan! Wynne!_ ” Alistair gritted out, more than loud enough to be heard over Duncan’s cold, incisive needling—Winnie often started their fights, but Duncan was quick and ruthless about ending them—and Winnie’s sobbing. This time, though it took half a minute, Alistair could feel their complete attention focus on him again. It was mixed with raw hurt and confusion from Winnie, and sudden mortification—despite his stubborn resolve—from Duncan. “Wynne, give your brother three of the purple pencils. Taking all six was a greedy and mean thing to do. Duncan . . . just because your sister did a selfish thing that made you upset, _doesn’t_ mean you have the right to call her, or anyone else, a half-wit! _You both know better_ and were raised better than this self-indulgent acting out and vengeful behavior! Both of you apologize _immediately_ and _mean it_!”

 

More silence, now. Alistair couldn’t even hear Winnie’s sobbing, anymore.

 

After a still, quiet minute, Alistair was about to march right up there and sit them both down, Zevran-bloody-Arainai’s sodden clothes aside—when he heard Duncan murmuring to Winnie, soft and shamed. Apologetic.

 

Winnie sniffled and mumbled something back, took a big, shuddering breath that even Alistair could hear from downstairs, and said: “No, take them _all. I_ don’t want them—and I wouldn’t have kept them, anyway, you know. They’re just stupid _pencils_!”

 

 _More_ silence, then more _murmuring and mumbling_ , back and forth for less than a minute. Then, one set of footsteps could be heard coming toward the stairs—quick and light—though they stopped before that, at the spare bedroom.

 

The doors to both the twins’ room and the spare bedroom shut quietly.

 

It was a wounded armistice, but an armistice, nonetheless. Winnie would cool-down and finish crying it out in the spare bedroom, and Duncan would brood and ruminate in their bedroom. Within the hour, it’d probably be as if they’d never fought. Probably.

 

Alistair let out a relieved sigh. Though it wasn’t fun at the best of times, coping with his moody, emotionally operatic childrens’ mutual meltdowns, this one had been quick to flare, but also quick to gutter. And without fires or too much screaming, or anything else that might draw or hold undue attention.

 

Hanging his head and shaking it, Alistair nearly dropped the dry clothes when he automatically went to pinch the bridge of his nose. His usual preventative and remedy for a headache trying to get underway from too many surprises, too much anxiety and tension, and not _nearly_ enough in the way of emotional reserves to deal with any of it.

 

“Well! That was exciting! Never a dull moment at Casa Amell!” He clutched the bundle of fabric—taking another deep breath that was redolent of _Mountain Valley Mums_ fabric-softener—as he turned to face Zevran again. The other man was watching him unreadably, but for concern as plain as it was deep. Flushed again, but for a far different reason than Zevran being half-naked, Alistair shrugged. “Tweens can be . . . volatile. Like little tempests in only slightly larger teacups. But I hear that the teens are _much_ smoother sailing! Ah-ha-ha!”

 

“Hmm.” Zevran _really_ looked concerned, now, his brow deeply furrowed, and his teeth embedded in his pouty-plush lower lip. His hands went to his waistband once more, and with one nimble-quick motion, the button was undone. “Clearly we’ve been hearing parenting-anecdotes from very different sourc—”

 

“ _Nuhh_!” Alistair shook his head and took a few steps back, averting his eyes. For all of two seconds before he was sneaking peeks at Zevran again, his face flushing and blanching in turn. Zevran froze again, wide-eyed and wary.

 

“Yessss?” he drew out, calm, but hesitant. Alistair’s next flush was nearly incandescent.

 

“Erm, if you’d like some privacy, the loo is down the hall! Second door to your left, just past the dining room, as ever!” he hastily proclaimed, in a mortifyingly high and breathless voice, as he nodded in the same direction. Zevran’s eyes met his and that smile twitched briefly back into the well-remembered smirk. But at least he’d stopped at just unbuttoning that button, and not pushed down the zipper.

 

Clearing his still-dry throat, Alistair shoved the loaner-clothes at Zevran, who took them with a distinct air of fake solemnity and formality, his chilly, callused fingers brushing down Alistair’s as he did. “Actually, unless you have to, er, make use of the facilities, don’t bother with the loo. Just . . . go straight to the laundry room and toss your things in the dryer. You remember where the laundry room is, right?”

 

“But of course. Straight down the hall, to the back of the house,” Zevran said, amused and affectionate, alluring and _adorable_ , and _Alistair_ . . . Alistair _had_ to look away. He just _had to_. . . .

 

Clearing his throat again, he managed to break their locked gaze, and focus on his once-more-twiddling toes. It was the most difficult thing he’d done in recent memory. “Yes. Erm. If you wind up getting tackled and licked to death by a jubilant Mabari, you’ve obviously gone too far.”

 

“Obviously,” Zevran agreed with a warm chuckle that made Alistair meet his gaze again. For a few breath-held moments, anyway, before he let his eyes drop again. They were brought up short by a thick and twisting, pale and jagged scar that ran down Zevran’s sternum, seemingly from just below his armpit, all the way down and ‘round to just underneath his ribs, terminating above his abdomen. It wasn’t the only new scar, but it was certainly the most gruesome-looking. Alistair drew in a hissing breath and reached out before he could stop himself.

 

When his fingertips brushed Zevran’s cool, mostly-dry skin and scar, the Antivan elf shivered deeply, letting out a soft, near-soundless huff. Alistair met those eyes again . . . they were intense and locked onto his face, all questions and hopes.

 

“This . . . must’ve hurt a _lot_ ,” Alistair said, not removing his fingers or shifting his gaze, despite knowing both would be best for all involved. Zevran’s smile was a bit pained.

 

“It did. Almost mortally. But as bad as _receiving_ the wound was, _recovering_ from it was . . . worse.”

 

“I can’t imagine,” Alistair said quietly, sighing as he aimed his focus back on the scar. His fingertips traced back and forth along the path of raised flesh almost reverently. Zevran was still shivering a bit, then seemed to bring himself under control after a long, deep breath. “But you survived.”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

“And I’m . . . glad,” Alistair said, smiling and looking up as he realized that he meant it with everything in him. That hearing through scuttlebutt and gossip from friendly ex-colleagues that Zevran was still alive was as nothing compared to the deep relief and unalloyed _joy_ that was _seeing and knowing_ he was. In the flesh, as it were. “I’m glad you’re still alive, Zevran.”

 

“As am I, Alistair,” Zevran’s eyes flickered and flashed with some intense emotion, here then gone, before he dropped his gaze to the front of Alistair’s old jumper. “I’m . . . even _more_ glad that _you’re_ still alive. That you’re _here,_ and . . . thriving?”

 

“I suppose. More than I’ve any right or expectation to be, at any rate.” Alistair couldn’t stop brushing the scar, in an attempt to soothe old pain or . . . soothe old pain. He didn’t know which and wasn’t sure it mattered. Though he was obscurely pleased that the scar and the slightly puckered skin near it was warming a bit to his touch. “I’m sorry you were hurt so badly.”

 

“Thank you, but . . . I’m not hurting anymore,” Zevran said, with rough reassurance and genuine gratitude. The eyes on Alistair’s face were intent, but incredibly tender. “And the bastard who gave me this fetching souvenir is quite dead, now.”

 

Mouth quirking into a nostalgic, lopsided grin, Alistair chuckled when Zevran’s mantle of arrogant self-assurance settled on his shoulders once more, and flashed in his eyes. “You sure about that, Zev?”

 

“Naturally!” Zevran gasped, clutching the clothes to himself in overdone offense. But he was careful to not disturb Alistair’s still-caressing fingers not far below. “In fact, he’s _so_ thoroughly dead, I doubt even his own mother would know where to forward prayers and remembrances for his grimy, worthless soul!”

 

Alistair outright laughed, now. “That’s . . . actually not what I was referring to, though I _can_ personally attest that you’re _quite_ the crap assassin. I meant . . . I _mean_ are you _certain_ you don’t hurt?” Then, after instantly realizing the loaded nature of that question, he quickly clarified. “I mean, does the injury still pain you, at all?”

 

“No.” Zevran’s smile was fleeting and absent, though his stare was still bright and intense. Nearly unbearable, in its sincerity. For Alistair, the only thing that would’ve been even more unbearable than holding that stare, would’ve been forcing himself to look away. “No, I’m fully healed and hale. There’s no pain. Not from the scar, anyway.” A half-beat and a wicked curl to that absent smile. “This may surprise you, but _pain_ is the very _last_ thing I’m feeling because of this scar, right _now_.”

 

“Hmm,” Alistair hummed. Then blinked and blushed, letting his hand fall away from where his fingers had lingered, mere centimeters above Zevran’s unbuttoned fly. “Oh, er. Right. Um.”

 

“Straight back, after the dining room but before the excited Mabari?” Zevran asked, casual and amused, his usual mask of zero-fucks-given practically drywalled to his skull, once again. Alistair drew a blank for several seconds, then nodded when he caught up, stepping aside so Zevran could pass.

 

“Yes. Er. Yes,” he confirmed, flustered and red-faced. After giving Alistair a considering once-over that he didn’t do a damned thing to hide, Zevran smirked and gathered up his shirt and coat, but left his daggers. When he strode past, he left in his wake a gentle waft of rain and spring, leather and steel, plus a stronger, muskier combination of scents that Alistair had missed dearly, but still remembered like it was yesterday. The scents of lemongrass, balsam, and something aloe vera-green and _calming_ , that was quintessentially _Zevran_.

 

It wasn’t until the other was out of sight, in the laundry room, that Alistair let out that Zevran-scented breath he’d been holding slowly, regretfully. Somehow, it’d felt like the first real, deep, _sustaining_ breath he’d had in nine years.

 

After staring at the sheathed daggers near his front door, he gathered them up, refusing to entertain memories of having done so a thousand times in the past with these same daggers. And with Audra’s staff, as well, since both she and Zevran had seemed to be in a dead-heat competition to see who could make Alistair have a clutter-related aneurysm first. Then, with a glance up the stairs, and a moment taken to listen to the reassuring silence reigning on the second floor, he stashed Zevran’s daggers in the hall closet. And behind the first-floor vacuum, where the children wouldn’t be inclined to investigate.

 

Satisfied that no one would be accidentally severing limbs or putting out eyes this afternoon, Alistair sighed, and went to prepare an afternoon snack for the twins and for Barkspawn. And . . . tea for Zevran and himself.

 

The former three would be easy enough to satisfy with fruit-snacks and granola, and Mabari crunch-treats, respectively. Alistair just hoped that Zevran was still partial to the strong Rivaini _assam_ tea to which Audra had introduced and addicted his, and Alistair’s unvaried palates so long ago. . . .

 

As she had done regarding so many new and _wonderful_ things, where two young idiots—one _irritatingly_ jaded, the other unbearably _naïve_ —had been concerned.

 

Smiling again, in remembrance that ached almost sweetly, rather than consuming like an abyss, Alistair stood in the middle of the brightly-lit kitchen. Because of the windows and direct exposure, there was rarely a need for turning on lights before sundown, even on a gray day such as this. Certainly, Alistair could see his surroundings well, indeed, and see the history that attended each item and corner like solicitous ghosts.

 

It wasn’t long, however, before he recollected himself. When the elderly, copper-bottom kettle was refilled and on, Alistair washed his hands and sorted out the twins’ snacks in small, colorful bowls on the kitchen table.

 

He set out mugs for all four of them—the kids weren’t especially partial to _assam_ , or tea at all, but would happily guzzle hot cocoa by the powdered packetful—and took care of preferences for sweetening and garnishing, as well. His own mug featured a veritable sugar-island at the bottom, plopped into a small lake of pre-poured cream.

 

At Zevran’s mug, he hesitated for a few moments . . . then shrugged and snorted. Like Alistair, Zevran was—in his sporadic, zigzag way—a creature of habit, when circumstance permitted. He probably not only still drank _assam_ , but still took it soured and unsweetened, like the heathen and savage he’d always been.

 

So, Alistair grabbed a lemon-wedge from the fridge, dropping it in next to the infuser of _assam_ leaves.

 

Times changed, yes, and so did people . . . but not _everything_ changed. Some things stayed the same—were as bedrock-reliable as death and taxes—no matter the years and distance and regrets. . . .

 

No matter what.

 

Teatime preferences, if nothing else, were surely high-ranked on most _civilized_ people’s lists of unshifting mores. Even if those people were the only _semi_ -civilized Zevran Arainai.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories and reminders. Some are painful, some are more so. And some are . . . decidedly kinder and happier. As ever, Alistair is trapped between continuing grief and fond remembrance, uncertain to which he clings more desperately. But for the first time in nearly ten years, he's not clinging alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Mentions of past major character death (the Warden's) and allusions to death during childbirth. Mentions of past grief, current grief, and heartache.

**IV**

 

For a few minutes, Alistair let his mind wander as he leaned against the small center-island.

 

He only blinked his way back to the present when he heard from the direction of the laundry room three sounds: the clang of a fist or foot impacting solid metal; a grumbled string of Antivan swears; and the noisy, powerful—temperamental—old dryer grudgingly starting up again.

 

Chuckling, he smirked and applauded when Zevran, somehow still insanely gorgeous in Alistair’s big t-shirt and old, baggy—on Zevran—trackies, stepped into the kitchen, looking exasperated.

 

“I _cannot_ believe you not only _still have_ that ancient, evil beast, but that you continue to use it! Still let it fry poor, _innocent_ items of clothing like a—a short order cook, dishing up truck-stop eggs-over-easy!” the Warden-Commander said rather waspishly, tsking, then crossing his arms over his chest. Alistair’s chuckles were nearly guffaws, by now.

 

“Oooh, _someone’s_ still angry that he annihilated his best pair of Antivan leather trousers, because he wouldn’t listen when _someone else_ advised him to just let them hang-dry,” he sing-songed, and Zevran huffed, but his lips were twitching like he wanted to smile, too.

 

“Those trousers were _very_ expensive, _and_ they fit like a dream! That dryer ruined them _on-purpose_ , and no amount of your cruel mockery will ever convince me otherwise!”

 

Alistair smirked. “I never for a moment thought it would. And yet, indulging in said mockery is _terribly_ satisfying, nonetheless.”

 

“Ouch! Why, oh, _why_ must beauty always wound me so _deeply_?” Zevran bemoaned, clutching at the left side of his chest and staggering a few steps back, to dramatically brace himself on the arched kitchen entryway. Alistair huffed.

 

“Perhaps because _you_ tend to find sharp, pointy, dangerous things beautiful?” he suggested, and Zevran waggled his brows.

 

“But I find _you_ beautiful, Alistair. _Breathtakingly_ so.”

 

Alistair rolled his eyes, even though his face instantly turned a mortifying fuschia. “Yes, well . . . my point still stands, you masochist.” He cleared his throat and tried to shrug, as if he was unaffected by Zevran’s words and Zevran’s . . . _Zevran_. But he doubted he was successful. Especially when a smug, satisfied grin was bent his way.

 

“Ah, I _have_ missed making you laugh . . . _and_ making you blush,” Zevran said, soft-sincere and bone-weary under his usual mountains of charm. His smile was warm and wistful, but also sad. Alistair was surprised at the pang and ache that moved through him, then dug-in somewhere deep, and heart-ward, to set a spell.

 

“You, er . . . were always good at doing _both_ , despite _my_ best efforts. And often simultaneously,” he admitted quietly, surprised that it felt more like progress than fifty huge steps back.

 

Zevran’s smile deepened, seeming less sad as he continued to gaze at Alistair. Soon, there was far more wonder and hope than sadness.

 

“Anyway!” Alistair’s tone was brusque and up-tempo, and he clapped his hands together. His smile didn’t feel put-on, not _quite_ , but it _did_ feel a bit consciously propped-up. And under Zevran’s steady gaze, Alistair felt obliged to keep making that effort. “Normally, the twins don’t slow down for snacks until I’ve shouted for them _at least_ three times, and with increasing sternness,” he said with convincing wryness, despite the churn of his stomach and the turn of his thoughts. His fading blush rallied for a few moments and he cleared his throat again, then turned to face the fridge. He’d never liked having his back to people he didn’t trust, but apparently Zevran was still on Alistair’s list of trustables, somehow. After everything. “I, erm, get the feeling their thus-far diverted curiosity about their parents’ . . . friend would perhaps lessen that to two, or perhaps even one shout. And no sternness required.”

 

“Ah, then it is fortuitous that their parents’ _friend_ arrived when he did.” Zevran’s words were hesitant, his voice low, and his tone uncertain.

 

“Mm.” Alistair’s response was simple acknowledgement of Zevran’s statement and nothing more, for two reasons. First, because he’d shared so little of his and Audra’s past with the twins—much of it too bloody, too sad, or too painful for the ears of his children and for his own battered heart—that he had no idea how to broach it with no preparation. Was bloody _shaken_ at having a piece of his intentionally-shrouded past appear on his doorstep for reasons as-yet-unknown, while incidentally dredging up years of suppressed misery and anguish from the salted-earth of Alistair’s heart.

 

The second reason was . . . Alistair was suddenly quite distracted. Focused on the fridge, which was covered in mementos of the twins’ many achievements: Winnie’s drawings, Duncan’s essays, photos of them throughout their childhood. And . . . photos of Audra throughout the first two trimesters of her pregnancy: all softened curves, rounded-wholesome features, and beaming, brilliant smile.

 

By mid-third trimester, when her health had _really_ started to go downhill, she’d asked Zevran to stop taking photos of her.

 

_“No one wants to remember me looking all gaunt and gray-faced, with suitcases under my eyes,” she’d said, three weeks before she’d gone into early labor and two weeks after she’d been hospitalized due to illness and persistent weakness._

_Alistair—sitting at her bedside in a horribly uncomfortable chair, and squeezing her hand as she met his gaze from the smothering depths of the hospital bed that’d dwarfed her—had nodded his understanding. Even then, he’d been preparing himself for accepting the unacceptable because that had been no less than what Audra deserved_. _What she’d_ earned _: assurance that her affairs would be taken care of and her wishes taken into account, rather than her partners living in selfish denial that would only drain her faster, and make her final days unsure and worrisome._

_If his brave, beautiful Audra was being courageous enough to look near-certain-death in the eye and hold that icy, inevitable gaze without flinching, then Alistair could and would do nothing less, as well. No matter his own fears and despair and_ grief _—his wish that he_ could _pretend that everything would turn out well—he would, as ever he had, have her back and give her all the support he was able._

_Zevran—perched on the foot of Audra’s hospital bed and armed, as usual, with his fancy digital camera—had pouted and winked, though his usual charm and confidence had been forced and desperate. “You, my delicate orchid, are glowing and_ lovely! _Of course, I want to remember you as you are at this moment! In_ every _moment! And in the future, when you’re feeling better, we can look back on these photos and all agree that, as always, Zevran was right!”_

_Audra had smiled a little—even that had seemed to wear her out a bit more . . . made her wan, gray-umber skin far more of the former than the latter—before closing her eyes. She hadn’t bothered to gainsay Zevran’s assertion that there’d be a future for her, let alone one in which she would be ‘feeling better.’ “I can’t stop you, Zev._ No one bloody can _, once you’ve set your mind and heart on something. But don’t . . . don’t let the twins see me like this. Hide the photos or burn them . . . just don’t let them see their mother like this.”_

_Her voice had been weary, wrecked, and faint, and she’d clearly been close to drifting off, but keeping herself awake and aware to get Zevran’s word._

_The Antivan elf had looked gobsmacked for the first time in Alistair’s experience. Heartbroken and frightened, and Alistair had known then that Zevran, far from working on accepting the inevitable, had been actively denying it. With every atom of his being, he’d been fighting against knowing that the woman he loved was not only dying, but that it’d be a miracle if her children didn’t die with her._

_“Audra, my effulgent dove,” he’d begun, temporizing and blanching. Audra’s tired face creased with lines of strain, pain, and distress, and Alistair had squeezed her hand._

_“_ Of course _, he promises, my dear. And our Zev_ keeps _his promises, doesn’t he?” he’d asked, shooting_ their Zev _a hard, unyielding glance. The other man had looked away, then_ turned _away. Then stalked silently out of Audra’s hospital room like a man with an appointment to keep. Alistair hadn’t the energy to go after his other partner, nor the reserves to reason with or comfort him. Not when their perfect,_ amazing _Audra was. . . ._

_Alistair had turned back to his blinking, frail spouse. His hero. His love. The backs of his eyes had stung fiercely, but he hadn’t let a tear fall, nor his calm, certain smile falter. “I’ll see to it that Zev doesn’t slip or forget, love. I’ll look after him. I’ll look after our_ family _. I promise.”_

_“Hmmm. . . .” Audra had hummed with sleepy satisfaction, and had slipped into the restless unconsciousness that’d passed for her sleep in those penultimate weeks. . . ._

 

Blinking his way back to the present, Alistair brushed his finger down a photo near the slightly-less cluttered bottom of the freezer door. The photo was held fast by a magnet shaped like a bunch of bananas, and it, too, was of Audra. She’d been in the middle of her second trimester, glowering fiercely at the camera—at _Zevran_ behind it—as she stood in the laundry room, wearing nothing but an orange tank-top, and her favorite blue jeans . . . which would no longer zip all the way up over her baby-bump.

 

Alistair hadn’t been there when Zevran had taken that photo, but he had been for the one to the right of it. In that one, Alistair was holding the newborn twins. His pale, drained face had been torn between joy for the advent of the perfect miracles Audra had held on long enough to deliver . . . and grief at the loss of one of his partners.

 

As ever, Zevran had been behind the camera, but with none of his usual verve or enthusiasm. He’d left the flash on, for some reason, startling Alistair into dazed, wide-eyed blankness and washing out his already-pale complexion. And in his arms, smaller than somethings so defenseless in such a horrible world had _any_ sense being, the twins had slept on soundly: Wynne Revka Amell had been pouting, and Duncan Ydallo Amell had been frowning.

 

Alistair smiled a little. Even in those first precious, fragile hours of life, the twins’ personalities had begun forming. . . .

 

“They still look just like her,” Zevran said from just behind Alistair, who didn’t start. He’d been smelling that musky-bright Zevran-scent strongly for more than a minute, and had also been feeling Zevran’s warmth and presence for about as long.

 

“Yes, quite. Winnie’s a carbon-copy, from looks to character—all big temper, big courage, and big _heart_. Duncan . . . is still a bit of an enigma, for the most part. But as he gets older, he . . . reminds me of his father, looks-wise. And in certain of his . . . personality quirks.”

 

“Hmm. You mean he’s dashing, charming, and urbane?”

 

“Er, try exasperatingly stubborn, undentably self-confident, and frequently obnoxious.”

 

Zevran laughed, but didn’t gainsay the comparison. “ _Can_ a person look stubborn, self-confident, and obnoxious?”

 

“Find a reflective surface, and _you tell me,_ Zevran. Certainly, if _anyone_ can. . . .”

 

Another laugh, and Zevran moved closer, still, his hand settling lightly on the small of Alistair’s back. They both shivered, though the gesture was hardly unfamiliar. Or unexpected, even if the timing was.

 

Alistair didn’t realize he was relaxing back into the claiming touch until Zevran hummed softly, settling his chin on Alistair’s shoulder. Though he had to bob up a bit on his socked toes to do so.

 

“You are pure and beautiful, and _endlessly_ desirable. To simply _see you_ is to have what passes for my reason and self-control instantly overthrown,” he said in what was little more than a breathy rumble. “And the feel of your skin—and the _scent of it_ , like wood smoke, autumn leaves, and cinnamon—still hits all of me like a hammer-blow. I want you _desperately_ Alistair. And I have _never stopped_.”

 

“Zev,” Alistair warned quietly, making a half-hearted attempt to maintain a bit of emotional _and_ physical distance. But Zevran’s right hand was sliding around his waist, his face turned into Alistair’s neck as he inhaled deeply and pressed his body against Alistair’s back. Alistair’s attempts at resisting—or at anything that wasn’t breathing and staying mostly upright—were quickly thwarted.

 

“I _know_ I don’t deserve this. This moment, _or_ you. But . . . please . . . let me have both? If _only_ for a moment? I’ve come so far, and . . . it’s been _so_ long. So lonely and _awful_ ,” he whispered, his warm, soft lips moving over Alistair’s sensitized skin.

 

After a moment of aching, unbearable hesitation, Alistair let his body relax, settle out of its readiness and tension, and let himself melt—just a bit—into _Zevran’s_ body, like it was old times.

 

Zevran wasn’t the only one who groaned gratefully and sighed contentedly in response.

 

But when Zevran’s lips described feather-light kisses up to Alistair’s jaw, he opened eyes he hadn’t been aware of closing. The first thing those damp eyes landed on was another photo. This one was of himself and Audra on the old living room sofa: She had been sitting with her socked feet up on the coffee table grinning and mugging for the camera, with eyebrows hoisted and mid-waggle. Alistair had been stretched out on the sofa with his head in her lap, deeply asleep and obviously mid-snore.

 

For the life of him, Alistair couldn’t remember when the photo had been taken, and wasn’t even sure if Audra had been pregnant at the time. . . .

 

But the distraction of his spotty recall provided enough time and distance so that whatever passed for his common sense or self-preservation rallied. He caught the hand resting low on his abdomen, burrowed under his old jumper, and halted its teasing, savoring descent.

 

“No, we . . . we _aren’t_ doing this, Zevran,” Alistair said, sounding frustrated and rueful even to his own ears, as he tried to move away from the erection pressed against his arse. As he tried to ignore the one forming between his legs, which Zevran hadn’t yet felt, but probably knew was well-begun. “This isn’t going to happen.”

 

“And here, I thought lying to oneself and living in denial were _my_ specialties,” Zevran purred, freeing his left hand, then placing it and the right on Alistair’s hips. He squeezed with equal parts passion and restraint, then pulled them back into his own. He wasn’t shimmying or grinding or thrusting . . . just pressing the front of his body to the back of Alistair’s, and _maintaining_ that thrilling, discombobulating contact. His breath was hot and humid on Alistair’s ear, interspersed with flickers of tongue and tiny, tender busses.

 

“Now, _this_ ,” Zevran rumbled with sinful satisfaction, then sighed. “ _This_ I miss more than almost anything. And I _remember_ like it was yesterday . . . the way you felt in my arms. The way you _still feel_ , my strong, handsome champion. . . .” another sigh, but it was half-suppressed moan, really. Zevran’s hands felt brand-hot and so right, it was as if no time had passed between the present and the past Alistair had been trying so hard not to examine. “I remember the way you felt around me, so furnace-hot and claiming . . . as if you meant to never let me go. I remember _exactly_ the way your skin shone in different lights: sunlight, moonlight, and electric-light. In hearth-light and candlelight. I remember the way you kissed me, so shy and sweet and hesitant. As if you were certain I’d turn you away. As if _anyone_ would or could. I remember when your kisses grew surer and hungrier and _overwhelming_ . . . as if you were pouring your heart and soul into them, and all your hopes. I remember . . . I remember the way you held me so tight those first awful weeks after Audra . . . and I remember falling asleep being held that way, so protectively. Then waking up in the morning, and _I_ was the one doing the holding and protecting, and you were were clinging so close and tight, as if even in dreams, you feared losing yet another person you. . . .

 

“I remember how strong you always were, no matter the circumstances. Always taking care of everyone else first. Audra, me, the twins . . . and I remember knowing that _you_ deserved the same. Deserved being _taken care of_. And that you’d never get that from someone like me, who simply took all your caring and gave little in return.”

 

“You think I _loved and took care of you_ because I was _expecting repayment_?” Alistair demanded in a voice that was gruff, but unsteady. Brittle under long-denied emotional strain and cracking with deep offense. Zevran shivered against him and let out a soft breath.

 

“I knew you _were not_ expecting anything of me. Rather, you merely _hoped_ for my continued presence and affection. And I see that, now, as then . . . you have _no idea_ of your greatness of character and spirit. Of your great _worth_. Of how much you _deserve_ , and have never gotten and may never get. Life has been exceptionally unkind to you, my love, but you don’t seem to realize how incredibly _unjust_ it's been, as well. Audra and I, however, realized. And I _still_ do. Then, as now, I knew that if it was ever in my power to give you better, give you what you deserve, I would do it no matter what. No matter what.” Zevran's voice was bitter, angry, and hurt. Self-mocking and ashamed. “And even so, I remember becoming . . . scared of my growing attachment to what was left of our family. _Paranoid_ that my increasing need for _you_ —all three of you—was making me soft . . . less cautious and wary. That I was setting myself up for a fall I’d never recover from, every time I lost myself in the way you looked at me. Or touched me. Or _smiled at me_ . . . like I was the best thing in your life. The only time anyone _else_ had ever gotten so close, well. . . .”

 

Alistair’s breath stuttered in and out of his lungs, and burning tears ran down his cold cheeks. He shook his head for long moments until he could get the actual words out. “Zevran, _don’t_. . . .”

 

“Only it would, of course, be _even worse_ for me to lose _you_ , because I had you for longer. The feelings . . . they’d had more time to take root and hook their claws into my heart. Each glance, touch, and smile scared me more and more . . . and made everything worse. Delightfully _better_ . . . and thus, so much worse.”


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of backstory, a bit of angst, a bit of smut . . . old patterns reassert themselves. Zevran works his figurative magic and Alistair slowly caves. He doesn’t _really_ want to resist said figurative magic, anyway. But he puts up a _very_ good front.
> 
> Thankfully, Zevran’s never minded taking the back-entrance. . . .  
> ::jazzhands::  
> ::slinks away::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for _Dragon Age: Origins_ and Alistair’s parentage. Smut/smutty reminiscences. Mentions of past major character death (the Warden's) and allusions to death during childbirth. Mentions of past grief, current grief, and heartache.
> 
> None of the artz below are the author's creation or property, merely glommed together for reference ONLY. Links to sources in end notes and, as always, support and patronize fan artz whenever possible.

 

 

Warden-Commander Zevran Arainai; Warden Audra Amell; Warden Alistair 

* * *

 

 

**V**

 

Puzzled and rather certain he should feel insulted, Alistair shook his head and braced his shaking hands and tense arms on either side of the refrigerator door. “Right. Being in love with me and having that love be reciprocated must’ve been _awful_ for you, Zev. I can see, now, why you took off with your tail between your legs. You have my sincerest sympathies,” he deadpanned.

 

Zevran snarled, his grip tightening enough to force a grunt from Alistair’s throat. “With each passing day, I became more and more certain that were I to experience _another_ such loss—one that not only compounded the first, but was also greater, still—I _would not_ survive it. Nor would I _wish_ to. After such a set of losses, _dying_ would be the only mercy left to me in this world,” he gritted in a stiff, but breaking voice, his hands clenching even tighter . . . before releasing a bit. Then a bit more, until he was merely squeezing Alistair’s hips gently and steadily.

 

As ever, those hands were reassuring, in spite of Alistair’s determination to be stoic, himself, regarding Zevran’s touch.

 

“I thought I was saving myself from eventual misery, Alistair. Saving us _both_ , actually,” Zevran admitted after a silent, but gusty sigh. “Selfish cad that I am, I felt it better for everyone—but especially my chicken-hearted, craven self—if I were to get out of the way. Out of the way of my own _safety_ from the horror of losing love again, and out of _your way_ , at last, so that you’d at least have a chance at someone better. At someone . . . who was worthy and _deserved you_. Or _could_ , someday.”

 

For almost a minute after Zevran stopped speaking—but not that infernally calming squeezing—Alistair _still_ couldn’t get the words out past the throbbing, aching lump now risen from his chest, to his throat.

 

“You really thought that I gave a nug’s arse whether or not we _deserved_ each other?” he finally whispered, shaking and angry and _hurting_ in ways so huge and gripping, he could barely breathe around them. “That I looked at you and saw anything _other_ than the only person left in the world whom I loved and who loved me? Do you think that what I fee—what I _felt_ was so fucking fickle and proud, that I’d change my _heart_ just because you’re not even _close_ to perfect? That despite _every promise I made to you_ and despite me laying what was _left_ of that heart at your feet _forever_ —simply in the hopes that you’d _keep it_ —I’d just wake up one morning with itchy feet, lose my spine, and . . . what? Say, ‘sod all that,’ and walk away? Like _you_ did?” Alistair snorted. “Well, that shows what _you_ know, Warden-Commander, now, doesn’t it? I’d have stayed with you until whatever end found us. You and Audra were _it_ , for me, once upon a time. Until we lost her, and then . . . _you_ were it for me. I didn’t want _anyone_ else and haven’t since. Because apparently, I’m _far_ dumber than even _Morrigan_ supposed!”

 

Alistair laughed, and was mortified, but unsurprised when it sounded more like sobs. Zevran’s hands tightened again, but from concern, and . . . an attempt to offer solace? Alistair didn’t even know and wasn’t certain it mattered.

 

“ _No_. Alistair, you . . . are _perfect_ ,” Zevran promised in that strange, soft-earnest voice. It seemed to ring and _reverberate_ with humility, earnestness, desperation, and devotion beyond even Alistair’s towering cynicism and wariness. In the face of such raw vulnerability and unshielded honesty—from _Zevran Arainai_ —he could only shiver and shake and let tears fall. He knew not to try and stop them. He’d never been _able_ to stop them . . . even when his entire heart _hadn’t been_ continuing a breaking-process it’d been suffering for ten years. “Oh, my charming, _handsome_ prince, you are absolutely perfect.”

 

Alistair blushed, as ever he had when Zevran called him by the title that had never been and never would be his. At least not if _Alistair_ had any say in the matter. And not, it was worth noting, _without_ stepping over Queen Anora’s and Teyrn Loghain’s dead bodies. “ _Don’t_ call me that, Zev,” he husked as Zevran nuzzled his neck and inhaled deeply, repeatedly.

 

“Why not? It’s who and what you _are_.”

 

“No, it’s _really_ not. _Cailan_ was a prince—then a king, after Maric died,” Alistair murmured, fighting the smile that was always instinctive at even a mention of the half-brother he’d revered and the king for whom he would always feel admiration and fealty. He would have followed Cailan to the Abyss and back—would have given his life for his king, during the battle at Ostagar. Perhaps as readily as he’d have given his life to save Duncan Grey’s. “Cailan was meant for greater things than an untimely death at the hands of betrayers and darkspawn. _I_ was never more than a weak man’s bastard offspring. Perhaps one of many, royalty being how they are.”

 

“It’s not _blood_ that makes the prince. Rather, it is _only_ among those who are _born_ to generational power, rather than earning and winning the respect and loyalty of their peers.” Zevran’s voice was fierce, now, and angry again. But this time purely for Alistair’s sake. “King Cailan was, from all accounts, a good and honorable man . . . for the most part. But he was also a fool. A naïve and stubborn one, with none of his father’s cunning or his mother’s incisiveness. The greatest achievements of his reign were clearly down to his brilliant, _ruthless_ serpent of a queen.”

 

Alistair sighed and shook his head again. He and Zevran hadn’t had this argument in ten years, but Alistair still remembered his lines quite well. “Yes, Anora _is_ brilliant and ruthless. But she’s also dedicated to taking care of Ferelden and its people. Under Anora’s rule, Ferelden is . . . thriving.”

 

“For now, yes. And what happens when that brilliance and ruthlessness turn against the people she serves? What happens when it turns against _you_? Against _King Maric’s son_ —the _only_ surviving Theirin heir? Rather, against the only _three_ surviving heirs, as I’m sure she believes?”

 

“It won’t.” But Alistair didn’t know how true that was. He knew that Anora still had spies looking in on him fairly regularly, and poking into his affairs. He could only hope, as ever he had, that she’d be content for as long as he remained in exile, and true to his word to neither return nor reveal his parentage to anyone.

 

And though Alistair’s name _wasn’t_ on the children’s birth certificates—neither was Zevran’s, for that matter—everyone assumed that the twins were, biologically, Alistair’s. Anora and her spies almost certainly did, as well. In their eyes now, perhaps Alistair was a threat not merely for still existing, but for appearing to continue the Theirin bloodline. And if the supposed perpetuation of that bloodline became known beyond the few who already did. . . .

 

Alistair shivered.

 

“Anora _won’t_ harm the children,” he hoped aloud, though more than a little skepticism shone through. “Nor will she harm _me_ , if I don’t give her reason.”

 

“Oh, my sweet, _generous_ Alistair . . . always hoping for the best and remaining faithful. Even when your hope and faith haven’t been earned. Or have been actively spurned and let down.” Zevran still sounded angry in spite of the purring, ribbing tone . . . but also sad. “She’s grasping and power-mad, just like her father. The father she _still_ backed even after he was responsible for the death of her husband and king. Despite what you _hope_ , my perfect paladin, _Anora Mac Tir_ lacks the honor of her husband and father-in-law, or the kindness and wisdom of her predecessor, Queen Rowan. The _only_ reason some of the Arlings represented at the Landsmeet went along with her claim to the throne was because _you_ wouldn’t let them rally behind Maric’s remaining heir. But they would have. The majority of the Bannorn would _still_ support the return of the Theirin line to the throne. And even if the Banns and Arls didn’t, _Ferelden’s people would_ support a Theirin king.”

 

“Only because they’ve never seen what results, when _Alistair_ tries to lead.” Alistair huffed and Zevran’s grip on him tightened once more.

 

“You are a _good_ man.”

 

“Hardly the same thing as a good _leader_. Trust that even _I_ recognize and can appreciate that difference.”

 

“It's better, then, that your countrymen are ruled by a despot in queen’s clothing?”

 

“Until and unless her actions threaten Ferelden’s entire way of life, I should say _so_. Anora is _not_ an ideal leader and neither am _I_. But she’s a competent public servant, whereas I am not.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“And I _don’t_ wish to find out at my family’s or my country’s expense!” Alistair growled, instinctively attempting to pull out of Zevran’s caging-keeping arms. But Zevran had always been eerily stronger than he looked—which was _very_ —and now that he’d decided not to let go, Alistair knew he wasn’t getting away without a physical altercation. With the twins so near, that sort of escalation was unacceptable, however. “I’m merely the result of a king’s indiscretion . . . _I’m not a leader_ ,” he maintained through gritted teeth. “I have no wish to be more than I was born.”

 

“I never said you did. Yet I’ve always wondered why you’ve settled _so adamantly_ for being _far less_.” Stung though he was, to that, Alistair had no response. He never had. As if sensing a victory, Zevran clutched him closer and went on. “If you’d decided to take the throne of the homeland your father and brother died defending, I would have stood as your champion at the Landsmeet. I would have whistled quite the jaunty tune as I cut Loghain the Betrayer down in front of his faithless viper of a daughter. I _still_ would.”

 

Alistair shuddered and hung his head. “Don’t . . . don’t say that. You’re _not_ an assassin, anymore, Zev. You’re _better_ than that, and pretending otherwise is a tired dodge.”

 

“Ah, but there, you are wrong, my sweet. This . . . Warden-Commander business is _very_ impressive— _many_ lovely perks come with it, including not having to pay for my own drinks at taverns and public houses near Weisshaupt, and such. But I, too, have never tried to be better than what I was born.” Zevran sighed, soft and cool and gusting on Alistair’s cheek. “I can’t give you much, Alistair. I’ve _never_ been able to give you much . . . but if you ever desire _Ferelden . . . that_ , I can give you. At your word. And for a _vastly_ discounted fee.”

 

Fighting a startled bark of a laugh, Alistair leaned back against Zevran and let himself be held up for a few moments. Then he, too, sighed again and straightened. Or tried to . . . Zevran was holding him close and tight, bearing up under Alistair’s greater weight as if it was nothing. It was obvious he had no plans of letting go without more of an effort than Alistair was in the mood to put in. “I _have never_ and _will never_ desire to be king of _anything_.”

 

“Whether or not you desire it may not always be relevant.” When Alistair started to gainsay this, Zevran hushed him, but not unkindly. “Their rule is built on the blood of loyal soldiers and Grey Wardens, and the betrayal of the rightful dynasty. Teyrn Loghain and Queen Anora _must_ one day pay for that. History has shown this to be inevitably so. And _they_ both know this, and so knowing, may not be content to let you, or the twins, simply be.”

 

Alistair had long-since acknowledged these truths to himself, if to no one else. Of course, he had. And yet, what choice was there for him? What hope had he but that Anora and Loghain would remain relatively complacent about his existence and the existence of Alistair’s “branch” of the Theirin line?

 

 _No_ other hope, that was what. And the more Zevran talked about it and belabored it, the less safe and protected Alistair felt. Even in exile. Even with the Vimmark Mountains and the Waking Sea between his family, and Ferelden’s northernmost Coastlands. Even with more than a decade since his only clear—but completely unwanted—shot at the Fereldan throne. Groaning, Alistair braced his arms and his body more firmly against the fridge, tempting though it was to simply keep leaning into Zevran. “Please, just let it go, Zevran. It’s in the past. For the continued safety of the twins _and_ me, I’m _begging_ you to _leave it there_.”

 

“As you wish,” Zevran replied grimly, after more than a minute had passed in tense, _in_ tense silence. “As you wish, and for as long as the queen and the teyrn continue to play nice.”

 

“Do . . . you have reason to think they might not, Warden-Commander? Honestly?” Alistair asked with quiet hesitance. He really didn’t feel prepared for that honest answer, however.

 

“A viper is a viper is a viper, Alistair. They have never given me reason _not_ to think their play at niceness would someday come to an end.” Zevran’s voice was even grimmer, now. “And when it does, so will the Mac Tir dynasty and bloodline. That I promise you.”

 

“Zevran . . . a Warden-Commander _shouldn’t_ say such things about _any_ current government or dynasty which is accepted by its people. We— _you_ are supposed to be impartial and apolitical.”

 

“My motivations aren’t remotely _political!_ And there are few in this world to whom I’m _partial. You_ are at the top of that list, as are the twins. And I will _not_ suffer those I love to be harmed simply for the sake of Ferelden’s stability. I owe Ferelden nothing.” Zevran’s voice was stony and final, and it was clear that as far as _he_ was concerned, _now_ the discussion was at last over. Alistair huffed once more, irritable and sullen—anxious and paranoid—about the past _and_ the future. Then, Zevran chuckled. “Especially when I may _still_ be experiencing some dyspepsia from the last time you _forced me_ to choke down that lumpy, tasteless morass you Fereldans call a stew.”

 

Sheer startlement made Alistair burst out laughing, despite the patently _obvious_ change of subject, and the scalding, still-falling tears, and persistent ache of his entire chest. He laughed out of frustration and wounded oversensitivity. But mostly, he laughed out of _relief_. Zevran joined him, holding him tighter and resting his forehead on Alistair’s shoulder-blade.

 

“I . . . will have you know that _not only_ is lamb-and-pea-stew a dish of some renown throughout southern Thedas, but that _I_ am especially adept at making it!”

 

Zevran’s smile, as it traveled Alistair’s trapezius muscle—where it would become kisses that ghosted toward the top of Alistair’s right shoulder—was as smug and sly as ever, but trembling minutely. “You _are_? Ah, then, that _is_ unfortunate for your entire homeland and your people, my manly cupcake. For truly, the only thing that left a worse taste in my mouth than lamb-and-pea-stew, was my Joining.”

 

Alistair scoffed. “Come, now, you’re not seriously comparing _my cooking_ to the taste of evil magic and less-than-fresh darkspawn blood?”

 

Silence, but for the soft whisper-glide of Zevran’s reverent lips—reverent _despite_ their telltale twitching—across Alistair’s skin and jumper. Finally, Alistair let go of the fridge and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“Arsehole!”

 

Laughing, Zevran planted a smacking kiss to the top of Alistair’s shoulder, then nuzzled his way nape-ward, once more. “Guilty as charged. Heh. Remember that time when you made a cauldron’s worth of Ferelden’s most lauded delicacy just after the twins got colic? And we had to _live off_ that vile stew, and whatever take-aways would deliver in the middle of the night and early morning, because the twins seemed to take individual turns at being asleep and whimpering, or awake and wailing? Occasionally joining forces, as well, to keep _us_ from sleeping or having . . . moments alone?” he murmured, nipping Alistair’s ear lobe.

 

“I _d-do_ remember, yes . . . it wasn’t the most pleasant part of their infanthood. For us _or_ them, poor little dumplings.” Alistair made a face as he remembered Winnie’s screaming, angry cries, and Duncan’s quieter, more bereft wails. It’d broken his heart being so helpless in the face of his children’s pain, knowing that he could only be there to hold them and make them as comfortable as the colic would allow. “A _nightmarish_ few weeks, to be sure.”

 

“Mm . . . though, it got markedly better by the _third_ week, yes? You remember?” Zevran’s chuckle was throaty and wicked as he shifted closer and pressed himself against Alistair’s arse again. He was either still hard or had gotten hard once more. In seconds, his truncated near-thrusts were distracting and jolting what little composure Alistair still possessed. “That one night they fell asleep at the same time, after we sang them _all_ the lullabies we could think of and rocked them until our arms ached. Then, after we prepared bottles for their inevitable waking later. . . .”

 

Alistair gasped out a breathless laugh as Zevran’s thrusts lost all their _near_ , and he found himself flush against the refrigerator repeatedly. Several magnets and mementos fell to the floor unheeded. “We were _both_ exhausted and frazzled, and it was just after sun-up . . . I _still_ don’t know what possessed you to . . . make a connubial overture _then_!”

 

“It’d been more than two weeks since we’d had some . . . quality-time for ourselves. _I_ was being a considerate and _proactive_ spouse,” Zevran loftily claimed. “And, _very_ romantic, yes?”

 

Alistair gripped the fridge tighter and Zevran rocked against him harder. “Oh, _very_ , yes. Bending me over the kitchen counter, warning me to _brace myself_ , then fucking the common sense out of me until both of us could barely stay upright . . . it was like one of those ancient, Nevarran courtly-romance ballads!”

 

Zevran chuckled again, then sighed dreamily. “It was _certainly_ one of our more memorable and . . . _satisfying_ assignations, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“Well, you’re not _wrong_ ,” Alistair grudgingly admitted, flushed with the power and persistence of that memory as Zevran pinned him to the fridge with flattering enthusiasm. All of him was hard, heated, and _hungry_. “Especially considering that despite using what must’ve been half a bottle of nearly-expired olive oil, you _still_ rushed through stretching and preparation, and went directly to let’s-jolly-well-split-Alistair-in-two-arse-first!”

 

“Mm-hmm- _hmm_ ,” Zevran agreed, his left hand shifting off Alistair’s hip and in toward his groin. _This time_ , Alistair’s hands clenched on the fridge . . . but didn’t intercept Zevran’s. “You _weren’t_ , however, complaining at the time. No, I believe _you_ were the one urging _me_ to: ‘Get on with it, Zev, before they wake up screaming again!’” When Alistair’s response was to blush and sputter, Zevran licked his ear lobe, then bit it with intent that straddled the line between playful and painful. He worried at it until Alistair groaned, low and wanton. “And how right you were to urge me, my radiant and masculine beauty. Not merely because of a providential, eye-of-the-storm lull. But because you _felt_. So. _Good_ around me, Alistair. So hot and tight and _right_. And I must admit, I’ve gotten more mileage out of _that_ particular interlude, than any others I’ve had. And that includes interludes with _other people_. Which is saying quite a lot.”

 

Alistair leaned his forehead against the freezer door, and snorted when his nose nudged a magnet off and to the floor. “Are you implying that being with _me_ is your go-to stroke-fantasy?”

 

Zevran’s hand paused on Alistair’s upper thigh, poised just beyond his erection. Alistair could feel the heat of that hand, it was so tortuously close. “I’m _stating_ that being with you was . . . _is_ a sweet, addictive, and _divine_ revelation, which neither time nor familiarity can lessen. You’re _irresistibly_ enchanting and guileless and genuine.”

 

“Oh, so, what you’re _really_ getting at is . . . I have a _great_ personality. . . .”

 

“No! I mean—yes, but—” Zevran groaned, then laughed and pinched Alistair’s right arse-cheek. When Alistair yelped, smacking at the already-gone hand, Zevran mock-bit his shoulder. “While you _are_ as dear and lovely a soul as has ever been—even if you _can_ be quite the snarky little shit, sometimes—you’re also a sensual _feast_ of a man. Being with you is both sublime _and_ sinful.”

 

 _Now_ , Zevran’s hand settled on Alistair’s erection, light and warm, then heavy and hot even through Alistair’s trackies. Alistair couldn’t fight the hiss and moan that escaped him just from that simple, testing touch.

 

“The face of an angel, the body of a god, and the bearing of true nobility—plus, your _ass_ is—” after a pause to search for the right words, he settled for briefly, pointedly thrusting harder and faster, with breathy-terse-ravenous grunts that said more than even Zevran’s charming patter could. More magnets, photos, and art fell from the fridge and adorned Alistair’s bare feet.

 

“I r-recall you, er, _saying w-words_ to that effect while you h-had me b-bent over and face-down.”

 

“Yesssss.” Zevran’s laugh was surprisingly more wistful than filthy. But _still_ fairly filthy. And smug. “I was so sure I wouldn’t last longer than five minutes, even using all my stop-gap tricks to keep from coming.”

 

“You lasted plenty longer than _five minutes_ , as I, and my poor, abused arse remember and can attest.”

 

“Heh. True. But it was no thanks to my own fraying stamina and weariness, I assure you. And _all thanks_ to you being an . . . instant-stiffener, as these quirky Marchers would put it. The more I had of you, Alistair,” Zevran husked out on a soft, rumbling grunt, his hand tightening to a light grip on Alistair’s attention-whore prick. Alistair let out another soft, sibilant hiss. “The more I had of you, the more I wanted. The more I _want_. That is how it has always been and how it will always be.”

 

Zevran grasped Alistair more firmly, holding and not yet stroking. Alistair held himself still and let himself be pushed against the fridge by Zevran’s aggressive—desperate—thrusts. Nonetheless, he adroitly stepped over Zevran’s last longing assertion.

 

“I, er . . . I had bruises _everywhere_ , y’know? They took almost two weeks to fade entirely.” Alistair’s statement was equally nervous glossing-over, sulky complaint, fond recall, and wry laughter. And it ended on a soft, ululating moan when Zevran’s grip on his prick became more rhythmic squeezing, in time with the hand on Alistair’s hip. “And I was b-barely ambulatory for half that time! Mostly due to f-frequent repeats of you trying to _b-batter me into submission_ with your prick, whenever the twins gave us more than two minutes of peace!”

 

Zevran let out another one of his throaty-wicked chuckles. “Mm, you say that as if you _didn’t_ love being so _vigorously_ . . . hmm, _battered._ Then wearing my marks of affection and ownership. You act as if you didn’t _love_ the many enthusiastic reminders of how _enticing_ I find you and how fantastic we are together.”

 

Alistair whimpered, even as he let Zevran’s thrusts drive his body forward into the hand now clasped possessively-tight around his prick, and slam his body against the refrigerator hard enough to make it rock. After a slow breath in and out, Alistair squared his shoulders and pushed back against Zevran aggressively enough to be challenging . . . but not aggressively enough to repel the other man.

 

That had always been a fine line they’d both walked even when Audra had been a part of their sexual dynamic. They’d often had to negotiate outright who was calling the shots for many of their trysts. For though Zevran had almost always topped and was happy to be Dominant when handed the reins, Alistair had rather frequently enjoyed being the Dominant partner. He'd excelled at being a bossy power-bottom.

 

And Zevran had always taken direction so _very_ well, anyway.

 

“Ah, Alistair . . . my Alistair,” Zevran sighed as Alistair continued to meet his thrusts. Finally, his right hand left Alistair’s hip and slid back under the jumper, and in moments Alistair was groaning again, and briefly pliant as Zevran tweaked and tugged on his right nipple. The hand at Alistair’s groin was quick to scramble beneath the sprung waistband of the trackies and grasp Alistair’s prick once more, _without_ the barrier of synthetic cloth.

 

“You like to be in control, but you _love_ being taken care of. . . .” now, Zevran’s normally smooth, purring-sly voice was a rough and clipped growl, the nip of his sharp-perfect teeth a shiver-causing presence on every inch of Alistair’s skin they could reach. Zevran’s thumb brushed lightly across the head of Alistair’s prick, almost ponderous in its unrushed savoring and exploration. “You love being _taken just so_ , and made a slave to your desires.”

 

Meanwhile, Alistair was trembling and moaning, and about to fall completely to pieces under such a yearned-for touch and such freeing truth. The rhythm of Zevran’s thrusts slowed in a way that was entirely familiar—he was _pacing_ himself . . . saving himself and his release for after he’d turned _Alistair_ into a sodden, pleasure-inundated wreck—but seemed to _double_ in promise and power. Alistair choked back a cry that was soft, and beyond pride and pretense.

 

“ _Let me, Alistair_ ,” Zevran breathed in his ear. “Even if this is the only thing you ever accept from me again . . . _please, let me_. . . .”

 

Alistair shuddered. It took a few moments to collect himself, as far as that went. Then he drew in a deep and unsteady breath, and let it out to reply with the only thing it seemed was _left_ in him to say:

 

“ _Yes, Zevran . . . yes_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Reference photo sources:**
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>  **Alistair:** https://www.deviantart.com/?section= &global=1&q=littlekairi
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>  **Zevran:** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrphSZkzGss
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> _(The reference for **Warden “Audra” Amell** was found in a google images search . . . but the author didn’t keep track of search parameters beyond “Dragon Age” and “Female Warden.” The author takes no credit whatsoever for any of these three marvelous bits of art.)_


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rising action and falling action . . . smut and interruptions, and angst and feels. And, eventually, afternoon tea (or cocoa) and snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for _Dragon Age: Origins_ and Alistair’s parentage. ANGST. Smut/smutty reminiscences. Mentions of past major character death (the Warden's) and allusions to death during childbirth. Mentions of past grief, current grief, and heartache.

**VI**

 

Nothing more got said for several minutes, as Zevran gave Alistair an ungentle, near-frantic handjob—and a slow, _hard_ dry-humping—that was lacking in finesse and almost clumsy. Yet it was also the most passionate and ardent handjob Alistair had ever received, and certainly the most arousing.

 

Though, it _had_ been quite some time since he’d had the pleasure of any hand other than his own, and he realized he might be a tad biased.

 

The dirty-sacred, wrong-right pleasure of Zevran’s touch—also unchanged, but for having grown in intensity some ten thousand-fold—was still insanely electrifying. It wasn’t long at all, before Alistair was fully hard, gasping, and moaning, his body rocked and jolted by Zevran’s cruel-tight strokes, and moving to meet the steady, businesslike pistoning of the hips behind his own.

 

Yet despite Alistair’s desperation and abandon, despite the fever-pitch of **YES** that was his entire flushed, overheated body, he leaned over the edge of his waiting climax, but could not fall. As close as he was and as quickly as he’d gotten there—as close as _Zevran_ had gotten him there—he seemed to hover in the hinterlands of his release, never getting close enough to throw himself into it entirely. Never close enough to surrender himself to it and to Zevran, as he hadn’t in so long. . . .

 

But Zevran, for all his pacing and self-control, wasn’t terribly far from _his own_ release, if Alistair wasn’t misremembering the signs of sharp-high gasps, the bruising-brutal clutch of Zevran’s fingers on his hip, and the claiming-marking of sharp teeth anchoring in whatever bits of Alistair’s flesh were uncovered. His prick felt like an iron brand through their trousers, even hotter and harder than the incautious, rushed hand wringing a so far unwringable release from an increasingly frustrated Alistair.

 

“Fuck!” Alistair hissed, miffed and near tears. In large part because, even after years of living like a monk, even in spite of occasional—and _dire_ —temptation, and far rarer surrender to it . . . he couldn’t seem to just let everything go and _let go_. Years of self-denial and martyrdom, and when he finally wanted more than anything to lose himself, he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. And he knew the reasons why, and . . . they were _legion_. “Maker-damned- _priceless_ , this is! _Harder!_ ”

 

“You’re, ah . . . rather wound-up, my lusty legionnaire,” Zevran noted in slightly winded grunts.

 

“Then bloody _unwind me_ , you bloody prick-tease!” Alistair snapped, driving himself into Zevran’s grip hard, then back against Zevran’s body and prick even harder. They both groaned, low and needy, then Zevran laughed, clasping Alistair tight-tight-tight and cleaving to him urgently. “Make me _come_ , already!”

 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to know firsthand that at least your body still desires me, even if . . . the rest of you does not.”

 

“Yes, well, _thank you_ , Zev! _That’s_ the sort of kick-in-the-shin impetus that’ll get me there, sharpish! Brilliant!” Alistair’s laugh didn’t sound like sobbing, but it sounded wild and broken, like the laugh of a miserable madman. Zevran’s laugh, on the other hand, was warm and affectionate.

 

“Hmm, shall I tell you, then, about the things I’ve dreamed of doing with you— _to you_ —for the past nine years, four months, and six days?” he murmured, soft and intimate as cigarette smoke shared through a kiss. Alistair shivered and moaned, every relaxable part of his tense body doing so markedly. “All the things I still remember so very well . . . like the way you’d corner me and pounce like an angry kitten after we’d fought. Shoved me against the nearest wall or sturdy piece of furniture, and used that talented, shameless mouth of yours to reach a . . . rapprochement I _couldn’t_ ignore, let alone oppose? The brush and whisper of your lips, the tease and curl of your tongue, and the thrilling, dangerous scrape of your teeth . . . ah, your _mouth_ , my glorious Alistair . . . your mouth. And the lovely, wanton flash of your eyes when you were _especially_ worked up, and manhandled me to our bedroom, pushed me down on our bed and rode me like I was the last train out of town. . . .”

 

Alistair’s groan was low, long, and almost entirely surrendered, and his body . . . was just about the same.

 

“I remember well how you’d pin me and fuck yourself on my cock like a man possessed. Took and took what you needed, for as long as you needed it. All abandon and need and _urgency_ . . . until you’d worked yourself into such a state that the only way you were able to come was to be _taken right back_.” Zevran’s breath was hot and heavy in Alistair’s ear, his stroking slower and teasing, but no less rough or tight. “I think that is where you are, right now. I think you need to be taken, rather than to take. You need to be on your back, with your legs in the air . . . or on your hands and knees. Or on your stomach. Or, perhaps, all three, in succession, yes? I must confess, that in all three cases, the view from _my_ vantage-point is . . . _unparalleled_.”

 

“Yessss, Zev, _Maker_. . . .” Alistair moaned, as he was swept up and away on Zevran’s words and his own memories, and ushered to the precipice, once more. He leaned over the edge, arms wide and smiling as he teetered forward into an abyss that was nothing, so much as the depth and breadth of his own hopeless, helpless— _still-growing_ —desire and yearning for the only man he’d ever loved.

 

“Mmm, my Alistair. _All of that,_ I dream, and so much more. _Every night_ I dream of _you_ —and have for _so long_. So long,” Zevran whispered shakily, pressing his face to Alistair’s left shoulder-blade. Even through the jumper, that face felt squinched-tight and wet. Heated from fighting whatever emotions were making his rangy body quake with some great feeling that _wasn’t_ an orgasm. Making the appreciative hand on Alistair’s prick slow to a tremoring stop. “I . . . I should never have left. My love, my heart, _my all_ . . . I should never have left.”

 

Instantly, Alistair was no longer even in the hinterlands of a release. The heat, familiarity, and coarse-controlled strength of Zevran’s stilled grip was mitigated by the return of the chest-constricting, breath-stealing _ache_ that had so recently subsided for a bit . . . but with which Alistair had lived for nearly ten years. Even Zevran’s return—for however long _that_ was—couldn’t permanently eclipse the grief and loneliness that knew Alistair better than Zevran Arainai ever would again.

 

After a silent, still minute, Alistair pushed away from the refrigerator and its few, still-up photos and papers, but didn’t push back into Zevran. Nor did Zevran try to cajole him into doing so.

 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Alistair agreed mildly, when he was able to string together cogent thought once more. When he was able to _speak_ beyond his own sense of bitterness and disenfranchisement, which struggled to rise like gorge. His voice was a chuffed, hoarse exhalation that was more tired air than actual tone. He cleared his throat then forcibly kept his eyes and attention from straying to, and focusing on the refrigerator photos. They were a payload of pain he didn’t need to deal with for the moment. “But you did. Let go of me.”

 

“Let you go? Ah, even _I_ won’t make such a grievous error twice in one lifetime!” Zevran’s chuckle was apologetic and self-mocking, for the two seconds it sounded. He laid his head on Alistair’s right shoulder, then propped his chin up on it. Alistair could feel Zevran’s solemn regard on his profile like a directed and focused heat-source. “Alistair, treasure of my life, I’m _so endlessly sorry_ that I left you and the twins. Of all the _many_ things I regret _not_ doing in my misbegotten life, _not staying,_ and _not_ trying harder to be the man _you hoped I was_ is . . . the thing I will always regret _most_.”

 

Hanging his head as disappointment and bitterness threatened to sweep him out to sea, Alistair’s chuckle sounded tired and ghastly. “Is _that_ why you’ve come back, Zev? Regret?”

 

“I . . . no. Not entirely. Not even mostly,” Zevran swore vehemently and clung closer to Alistair’s back. His right hand splayed and settled on the center of Alistair’s sternum, all warmth and calluses and reassurance.

 

Alistair squinched his eyes tighter and ignored all the things his stupid, hopeful, never-learns-its-lessons heart had ever wished or dreamed. “Because I’ve often noticed that the reasons people return to places or people or things they’ve abandoned, are the same reasons they left in the first place: regret. Fear. Desperation. Need.”

 

“All those things, then, yes. _All of them_ , my singular champion.” Zevran’s voice was low and guilty. Ashamed, but determined. “That’s still _not_ most of why I left so cravenly. _Nor_ most of why I finally found the courage to come home.”

 

Alistair held himself still and said nothing, waiting Zevran out until the other man sighed.

 

“I came back because of love, Alistair. Unending, unforgettable, impossible to ignore, terrible, wonderful, crazy, _beautiful_ love. For you. For our children. For our . . . family. For three of the only four people I’ve ever truly cared for, let alone so deeply.”

 

“Do you even _know_ what real love is and what it _means_? How it _burns_ to have love up and leave _twice in one lifetime_ , let alone one year? And how _dead_ one feels in the wake of that desertion?” Alistair demanded—or meant to. His voice emerged shaking and small, barely more than a whisper. Zevran’s reply was self-deprecating and sad.

 

“Yes. Oh, yes, I do, Alistair . . . repress those feelings and that knowledge, though I have. _You and Audra Amell showed me_ , through example, what _real love_ was, and how to love truly.” Zevran’s voice was tear-shaky in a way it hadn’t been since Audra’s funeral and the lighting of her pyre. They’d both stood with the twins in their arms—Wynne in Alistair’s arms and Duncan in Zevran’s—and watched flames leap. Watched smoke drift to the sky as if trying to follow Audra’s spirit. That hadn’t been the last time Alistair had wept in Zevran’s presence, but it was certainly the last time Zevran had wept in his.

 

“I apologize for not being brave enough to live that example. And I know there’s no real atonement for that,” Zevran said, soft and despondent. “But if there’s _any_ hope of a _second_ chance to live the love you both taught me, then _I can’t exist_ another moment without doing so. Without devoting myself eternally to the family that means everything to me.”

 

With all coherent thought swamped by a tidal wave of contrasting and conflicting emotions—happiness and sadness, relief and rage, faith and skepticism, trust and a deep sense of betrayal, need and want—Alistair didn’t even open his mouth to respond. He had no idea what would come howling out if he did.

 

The silence between them stretched and though Zevran’s hand on his wilting prick had stilled, it hadn’t let go. And _he_ was still hot and hard against Alistair’s arse, his breath hot and _soft_ on Alistair’s trapezius, once again.

 

“ _I love you, Alistair_ ,” Zevran said, choked and rusty, as if he’d never said the first three words before. As far as Alistair knew, Zevran hadn’t. Not to _him_ , anyway. And not even to Audra. “More and more every day. You . . . _here_ is the only place that has ever been home for me. I knew that, but didn’t realize until after I’d been tramping about the wilds for nearly a year—nonstop, slaughtering darkspawn and Fade-wights, with no one except my taciturn Senior Warden for company—how _important_ having a home and family was. But once I did, I never forgot. But by then, I had resolved to suffer in silence forever, rather than dump the past in your lap, and . . . wreck the stability and peace you’ve carved out at such great pains. But of course,” he sighed guiltily, more drops of wet warmth wetting Alistair’s skin and the shoulder of his jumper. “My selfishness is ever true to form, because here I am, doing the one thing I _swore_ to never do to you and the children: trying to interject myself into a life and family that I was cowardly enough to abandon for almost ten years. To selfishly try and pick you up like a—a paused chess game.”

 

Alistair squinched his eyes tight again to keep from weeping and pursed his lips tight to keep from speaking. Neither worked to trap his tears behind his sore-swollen eyelids and his truth in his beleaguered-bereaved heart, where they belonged.

 

“You haven’t an inkling of what my life has been like since you left, Zevran. How bare and agonizing and _lonely_. How _despairing_. I’d be dead of my regrets, or by my own hand, if the twins didn’t need me to take care of them and love them. _Protect_ them. If I hadn’t _promised Audra_. . . .” Alistair sniffled and opened his eyes. He dashed away the tears that spilled out, but gave it up as a bad job almost instantly. “Once they’re old enough and strong enough, and settled in their own lives . . . I suppose I’ll be hearing the Call of the Old Gods pretty loudly, by then. Especially without daily distractions and indestructible bulwarks to drown it out or block it altogether.” Alistair laughed, tiny and scared and sad. “Then I’ll make my way to the Deep Roads, I imagine. To my inevitable—but honorable—death. . . .”

 

“No.” Zevran’s voice was hard but cracking. _Frightened_ , Alistair might have said, if he didn’t know better. “You’ll have _me_ , if you wish it. You will _always_ have me, from this moment, on. I _need_ you, Alistair. And I love you. I always have. If you wish— _if you’ll let me_ —I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that. Until we heed our Callings _together_ , and die in the Deep Roads, fighting back to back.”

 

Alistair shook his head and forced out a cavalier laugh. “That’s a romantic, if grim sentiment, Zev. But I was born alone and spent most of my life that way. It’s how I’ve come to expect I’ll die, as well. I just . . . I hope that the _children_ . . . there’s a reason why Grey Wardens who’ve undertaken the Joining don’t have children. But perhaps Audra’s certainty that the Taint wouldn’t be passed on to them wasn’t entirely unfounded. I’d never find rest if such a fate was to be theirs, as well.”

 

“Ah, Alistair . . . my noble, selfless prince. . . .” Zevran didn’t sound mocking or sarcastic at all, but deeply moved and nakedly adoring. Alistair huffed out another small laugh as he was held tighter and closer. Zevran’s arms had always felt even stronger than they looked and, like the rest of him, they’d always looked strong, indeed. . . .

 

He snorted sardonically and started to speak, but just then, the kettle went off, spitting water and hissing steam because it was overfull. He started, and behind him, Zevran actually _jumped_ , his right hand whipping out from under Alistair’s jumper—obviously going for a dagger with which he was no longer armed—and his left hand holding onto Alistair protectively, like an extremely hi-tech athletic cup.

 

The thought almost made Alistair chortle and giggle. Almost.

 

For long moments, neither man moved, and the kettle continued to scream and steam and spit. Then Zevran sighed, and chuckled uncertainly, his right hand re-settling on Alistair’s abdomen, now. Over the jumper, rather than under.

 

“ _Kettle-us Interruptus_ , no?” he murmured lightly on Alistair’s nape, but with hints of strain and resentment.

 

“Quite,” Alistair concurred dryly, shakily, his brow already furrowing with the faint beginnings of a headache from the piercing whistle. As annoying as the sound was to him, _Zevran_ had always been _extremely_ sensitive to loud and unexpected noises—for many reasons which, each and every one of them, would break Alistair’s heart even now, were he to hear them enumerated—and he’d slept lighter than anyone Alistair had ever known. For the moment, he was noticeably twitching as if wanting to drive a dagger through the bloody tea-kettle. Or through bloody _something_. “Are you okay?”

 

Zevran grunted, barely audible over the shrill whistle. Alistair shifted and reached for the stove, or tried, but Zevran didn’t seem inclined to allow him to stray even for a moment. His grip and embrace weren’t just possessive, but almost panicky.

 

“Grabby-hands,” Alistair chided, not quite chuckling. Zevran huffed against and nuzzled the top of Alistair’s spine, then leaned into him, urging him to the left and the nearby stove, rather than letting go. Rolling his eyes, Alistair let himself be shifted, repressing a shiver at the familiarity of Zevran moving with him, even in just so small a way. With fingers that were unsteady, he shut off the burner and opened the kettle’s spout, sighing when there was silence once more.

 

Well, a few moments of it, anyway. Almost immediately, Winnie crowed, “ ** _SNACKS AND COCOA_**!” from upstairs and the spare room at the front of the house. Overhead, in the twins’ room, was the soft, lingering creak of a complaining floorboard. Duncan was coming out of his brooding and rumination.

 

Zevran twitched again and remained tense, his breathing light, cool, and fast on the sensitized skin of Alistair’s nape.

 

“Seriously, Zev . . . are you alright?”

 

“Me? But of course!” He laughed, bright and not at all believable. “Ah, my dear and disarming champion, it will take more than poorly-timed _kettle ex machina_ to bring the _famous_ Warden Zevran to his knees—”

 

“Ugh.” Alistair snorted again _and_ rolled his eyes again, even though Zevran couldn’t see it this time, either.

 

“—though, _you_ have firsthand experience with bringing me to my knees, yes?” The heretofore quiescent hand on Alistair’s prick resumed its slow, teasing strokes and Alistair shuddered, groaned, and swallowed.

 

“Zev. . . .”

 

“Or do you, perhaps, desire a _demonstration_ to remind you of the thrall you have over me?”

 

“I . . . _Maker_ , Zev, _that_ sort of demonstration _will not_ be happening.” _Just yet_ , Alistair had to stop himself from saying, then castigated his traitorous body. “And certainly _not_ when we’re far from alone, Warden-Commander.”

 

“Not alone? Hmm, all _I_ see is _you_ , my dashing ensign. You and me . . . and the kettle made three, of course,” Zevran added nonchalantly as his hand sped up and the arm around Alistair’s waist tightened and drew Alistair flush against him once more. He was still hard. _Harder_ , even. Alistair clearly wasn’t the only one who’d been wound-up. But he lost the thought when Zevran’s breathy chuckle broke him out in gooseflesh. “Thankfully you handled that interloping pot with efficiency and panache!”

 

“Panache. _Riiiight_.” Before Alistair could follow-through with something suitably cutting, Zevran bit his ear lobe again, with sharp, precise teeth. The hand on Alistair’s prick squeezed, thumb brushing light-lingering-light over the tip. And suddenly, Alistair wasn’t wilting anymore.

 

Shortly, in fact, he was doing the exact opposite.

 

Groaning and murmuring breathy, fervent things Alistair did his best not to pay attention to, Zevran persisted. His hand was a determined handjob-machine, and Alistair knew it’d be the easiest thing in the world to let Zevran work him to a quick, dirty—long-needed—release. Sensualist though he’d always been, the Zevran whom _Alistair_ remembered had also been a surprisingly generous and giving lover, taking his pleasure from _giving pleasure_ as much as from receiving it.

 

If Alistair _let_ him, Zevran would give him this: a perfect, inappropriate, _lovely_ handjob—or, possibly, a blowjob—and not attach any strings, meanings, or assumptions to that which Alistair hadn’t _explicitly_ accepted.

 

Alistair could have _this_ . . . for free. Have his ridiculously sexy cake, and eat it, too. _If_ that was what he wished.

 

It didn’t have to _mean_ anything and, _if he wished_ , he’d never have to see Zevran Arainai again afterwards. . . .

 

No longer certain _what_ he wished or wanted—beyond _Zevran’s touch and the ability to trust his own heart,_ just like old times—Alistair caught Zevran’s arm by the wrist.

 

“I can’t,” he said, apologetic, but firm.

 

“Please, Alistair,” was all Zevran managed in protest—hoarse and shaking—even as he didn’t resist Alistair’s removal of his hand. Once that hand was out of Alistair’s trackies it did not, however, settle on his waist or hip. Also uncertain of his feelings about _that_ , Alistair shifted away from Zevran’s body and hold. When the possessive, protective arm around his waist reluctantly let go, Alistair moved a few steps to the safety of the left side of the stove. It was half a minute and several deep, centering breaths before he could speak. Then the rest of the minute, besides, before he could think of something relevant to say.

 

“You, erm, still take your tea with lemon and no sugar, yes?” he asked abruptly, nervously.

 

“Yes, I do. Thank you,” Zevran replied evenly, but with frustration and regret running through the attempt at calmness and modulation. Alistair forced his thoughts away from such unintentional, but nonetheless plain evidence of Zevran’s own pain and heartache. He hardened his heart as best he could because . . . well, because only an idiot or a glutton for punishment _wouldn’t_ , right?

 

 _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me_ , Alistair told himself, and told the Zevran who would probably always live in his heart, soul, and memory. _You brought this on yourself, after all. Not to mention on your daughter, your son, and your_ . . . me.

 

All of which was true, but also unutterable. Even if Alistair wished to destroy Zevran so completely—as he sensed such harsh and brutal honesty might do—he knew that his own devastation would be part of the cost.

 

The satisfaction accrued from such mutually assured destruction was, he further sensed, not remotely worth the agony that came with it.

 

So, as ever, Alistair closed his mouth on so many of the things it was in him to say . . . because Zevran already knew, and likely knew that Alistair did, too.

 

“Excellent! Afternoon tea will commence in two shakes.” Alistair unclenched his aching fists and adjusted his trackies. He pulled his jumper down _low_ —his erection was once again wilting as quickly as it’d sprung up, but he didn’t want to take any chances—before taking up the steaming kettle with brisk determination and an air as of closing a previous topic of discussion. Winnie and Duncan could be heard thundering down the stairs like a herd of starving nuggalopes, whooping and complaining, respectively. “Oh, and unless you want to weather death-glares from the twins, _don’t_ touch their fruit-snacks and granola.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1\. kettle-us interruptus**
> 
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> **2\. kettle ex machina**
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> **3\. you and me and kettle makes three**
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> —Courtesy of [Hotot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot) :-*


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon snacks and tea, and changing/changed dynamics. Détente and denouement . . . but not _really_ the end. It _might_ just be the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for _Dragon Age: Origins_. Mentions of past canon minor character death. Mentions of past grief, current grief, and heartache.

**VII**

 

Alistair let Barkspawn in, to eat his Mabari crunch-snacks in the laundry room—where he knew to stay until he was no longer dripping, even despite his obvious excitement at Zevran’s scent and presence—then seated himself at the kitchen table, between Zevran and Duncan, and across from Winnie.

 

The twins—Winnie, at least—were already munching happily on indiscriminate handfuls of granola and fruit-snacks, between slurps of cocoa that should’ve scalded her tongue. But it never had. She already had a marshmallow-and-cocoa foam mustache. Not to mention a big dot of it on her nose.

 

“Ahhh,” Zevran pouted, gazing with overdone wistfulness at said mustache and sighing. “Clearly you take after your Daddy, if you’re capable of sporting such a fine mustache as that! I, myself, could never manage more than some rakish stubble and ambitious peach-fuzz.”

 

“You mean that ridiculous scruff you called a goatee and the scumbag mustache that made you look like a petty grifter?” Alistair queried, then met Zevran’s surprised eyes and small smile. Finally, the other man chuckled and flushed, gazing down at his tea. That small smile was twitching and sly.

 

“As I seem to recall, you rather enjoyed my facial hair. The stubble, anyway. The rasping roughness of it against . . . hmm, _sensitive areas_.”

 

Now, Alistair was the one to flush—deeply—and clear his throat. His own mouth was trying to be both a scandalized gape and a big, idiot-grin. He aimed the uncertain expression at his mug of _assam_. “Yes, Zev, there’s nothing quite like getting carpet-burn in _sensitive areas_ that’ve never even touched a bloody carpet.”

 

Zevran’s lips twitched some more and he took a sip of his tea. “I apologize, then, for my . . . enthusiasm and thoroughness. And for my unfortunate attempt at facial hair. I clearly forgot that not everyone can be as effortlessly hirsute—and _handsome_ with it—as you Fereldans.”

 

“Sometimes, Daddy has stubble, and it’s scratchy and tickly when he kisses me good night and good morning!” Winnie piped up, pointing to the spot just above her nose, where Alistair had kissed her every night and every morning of her entire life.

 

Alistair, still red from Zevran’s last statement, bit his lip and risked a glance at Zevran. Then, when Zevran’s gaze was too intent—too much—to continue to hold, he let his eyes drift to Winnie. “I _do_ save all my _best_ stubble for my best _girl_. Sharing is caring, after all.”

 

Winnie giggled and popped a fruit-snack—one of the red flavors, Alistair couldn’t tell which—into her mouth, then free-threw four grape ones in Duncan’s bowl, one right after the other. Duncan looked surprised, then smiled at his sister, crooked and warm.

 

Then he grinned and tossed all his remaining blue fruit-snacks—raspberry, if Alistair was remembering correctly, and a perennial favorite with the twins . . . Winnie’s _absolute favorite_ , and Duncan’s second, right after grape—scatter-shot at Winnie’s bowl. Two of them even made it in amongst the other snacks and granola. The rest Winnie happily collected from the table around her bowl and one from the front of her _My Little Nuggalope_ t-shirt.

 

As ever, Alistair was in awe of and _deeply_ gratified to have such endlessly surprising and loving— _wonderful_ —children.

 

Throughout the rest of snack-time, Winnie peppered Zevran with seemingly random questions, all eager-huge eyes and wonder. Most of them were about where he was from (she pouted a bit when he admitted that despite the facial tattoo, he was _not_ a Dalish elf) and the places he’d been. Zevran responded to each question with affection and patience, as well as discretion. Even when Winnie’s questions turned to the past . . . to how Zevran had met her Daddy and Mummy, and what they’d been like _forever ago_.

 

“Your mother was the loveliest and kindest, strongest and bravest woman in the world, Winnie. Simply remarkable,” Zevran finally said, wistful, but not exactly sad, when Winnie seemed to be taking a bit of time to process, rather than immediately rapid-firing more questions. Then he smiled at her, reaching out to brush a feather-light fingertip down her cheek. “You remind me of her so much. She loved you and Duncan more than anything, and would be _so_ proud of you both. Just like your Daddy is. Just like I am.”

 

Winnie beamed again, practically glowing. And both Zevran and Alistair had to look away for a few moments, each lost in their memories of Audra. And when Alistair was able to look up again, a genuine, if tiny smile on his face, Zevran was smiling again, too, but down at his tea. It was a complex expression, neither mostly happy nor sad, genuine nor forced, but a mix of a thousand emotions and memories and moments.

 

Alistair’s breath caught—audibly, apparently, because Zevran looked up at him with shining eyes that Alistair couldn’t read.

 

Just like old times, except . . . Alistair had a feeling that Zevran’s gaze wasn’t unreadable, now, so much as Alistair simply hadn’t the courage to read what was plainly there.

 

So, he kept his eyes mostly on his sugary tea, or the twins’ marshmallow-laden cocoas. Winnie was bolting her fruit-snacks once again, though all that was left was her remaining non-favorites, including lemon, orange, and persimmon. Duncan, meanwhile, said little and picked at his granola-clusters. He sneaked cool, appraising glances at Zevran that the Warden-Commander _had_ to notice, even if he didn’t acknowledge them.

 

Because by then, Zevran was the one doing the peppering of questions, asking Winnie about school and her hobbies, her friends and her dreams. She answered brightly and easily—exhaustively—and it was clear that she and Zevran were going to be fast friends.

 

At least for however long Alistair was stupid and sentimental enough not to send the charismatic Warden-Commander packing. . . .

 

“Daddy?” Duncan enquired quietly, worriedly, his small, fine-boned hand setting supportively on top of Alistair’s. Surprised—more by Duncan calling him “Daddy,” which he hadn’t since he was six—Alistair took a moment to compose his likely traitorous expression and suddenly stinging eyes, before meeting his _son’s_ eyes: perceptive, _protective_ , fiercely loving.

 

They were _Zevran’s_ eyes—more than they’d ever been Audra’s—either all walls and hooded watchfulness, or intense, nearly unbearable adoration. That only seemed to get truer the older Duncan got, and the more he understood the world and its fleeting sweetnesses and casual cruelties. And in this moment, those walls were coming down, indeed. Enough that the grim, but loyal regard Alistair had never seen from _Zevran_ —it was all _Duncan_ , the tenor of this old-soul affection—was shining out like overcast moonlight.

 

If Winnie was her mother’s daughter—and she was . . . every blessed iota of her—then Duncan . . . Duncan was his father’s son. Every blessed iota of him.

 

Never minding the ache in his chest, in his _heart_ , Alistair found a genuine smile for Duncan, then turned his hand over and squeezed Duncan’s hand gently. He returned Duncan’s fierce and protective love a thousand-fold with every atom of his being. Not _despite_ the boy’s growing resemblance to his biological father, but because of it. And because . . . _every other reason in the universe_.

 

Though it was sometimes overwhelming and heart-breaking that his daughter was the very spirit and image of the only woman Alistair had _ever_ loved, it was heartening, as well. Audra lived on in the world and in his heart, in the bright and undimmed sweetness of Winnie.

 

Likewise, though it was sometimes frustrating and painful that his son was like the only _man_ Alistair had ever loved, in sensibility and mien—more and more, every day—that, too, was nothing more or less than exactly as Alistair would have it. In this way, it was almost as if Zevran hadn’t _really_ left. As if a bit of his heart had remained, steady and faithful.

 

Alistair’s sentimental nature would shower the twins with all the love in him for that, if nothing else. But luckily for him, the twins were utterly marvelous. They were Alistair’s heart and soul and reason . . . his _miracles_.

 

“I love you _very much_ , Duncan,” Alistair promised softly, and Duncan’s solemn, even expression—not Zevran’s mask of charm and suaveness, but more a visor, or the faceplate of a helm, with concessions made only to breathing and seeing-out—flickered and faltered in the same way Zevran’s ever had. But only when he, too, was surprised by a genuine and overwhelming emotion.

 

The fierce love that Duncan only ever let shine for Alistair and Winnie was a lighthouse, in that moment, excepting the usual faceplate-expression. It was a beacon. It was the full light of the moon, with no clouds to obscure or leaven it. It was an unbreakable oath that Duncan swore in response and return to Alistair’s promise, before recomposing his small, angular face and nodding. Then he let his gaze drift to Zevran, where it settled, as heavy, stony, and unmoved as the roots of an ancient mountain.

 

Both Zevran and Winnie were watching Duncan and Alistair quizzically . . . though Zevran’s look was surely feigned, and politely so. If any of the other people in the room could read Alistair to his very bones, in this moment and any other, it was Zevran Arainai.

 

But, again, Zevran was polite enough to turn his incisiveness away. He met Duncan’s unimpressed stare and matched it with a wry, but kindly smile.

 

“And you, Duncan? How do _you_ do at your studies and interests?”

 

“I do adequately, _serah_. Thank you kindly, for enquiring,” Duncan replied with meticulous and icily gracious civility.

 

After that, a silence descended that no one knew how—or, in Duncan’s case, seemed inclined—to break. Winnie was wide-eyed and uncertain, darting confused glances between her brother and Zevran, then to Alistair for a social cue. Zevran was frowning down at his tea with stoic acceptance, his face set and lined in a way that made him look _older_ , for once. And Duncan’s expression was—as became more frequent with time around and experience with humanity in general—a wall that even a golem could’ve shattered itself against. Almost frighteningly so, and in a manner which gave not a hint of readable emotion, whether that emotion might be intent to insult, or contempt harbored.

 

“Duncan,” Alistair began, chiding, but patient. Duncan’s eyes—yes, yes, _Zevran’s eyes_ , really, only far more indicative of a mind and heart _already_ too convoluted and restless to ever be _truly_ content—lighted on Alistair’s face for long moments during which the mask didn’t give even a little.

 

Not for the first time, or even the first time _this day_ , Alistair was anxious not only for his young son, but for the man his young son was growing into. Alistair had _always_ worried near-constantly about _Duncan-the-man-to-be_ , and thus remained vigilant regarding _Duncan-the-boy-who-is’_ heart, soul, and mind.

 

Alistair was concerned for the sake of _both_ iterations of his son. And even though that increasingly meant—and had for years—dog-paddling in his own guilt and being tortured by the foreshadowing of _something_ which he couldn’t seem to avert for all his watchfulness and trying, he would _never_ stop standing in the way of any evils in his son’s winding path.

 

Though it sometimes seemed to Alistair that all he’d managed to do was _contribute_ to Duncan’s present and future difficulties, even if unintentionally.

 

 _I’m so sorry, Audra_ , Alistair thought, also not for the first time that day. Nor even for that hour. His right hand went to his aching-tight chest for a few moments, resting heavily over the wild tattoo within. _And I’m sorry, Duncan . . . my dear, fierce, troubled little ray of light. I’m failing you_ both _and I can’t seem to stop or reverse it. . . ._

 

Thankfully Barkspawn, dry to his satisfaction, if nobody else’s, trotted out of the laundry room and straight up to Zevran. The mature war-dog was all puppyish whuffs, lightspeed tail, and slobbery, welcoming kisses that Zevran took in stride. He hugged and petted and chatted excitedly with the dog—and Barkspawn certainly held up _his_ end of the chat—the way he would any other old friend and fellow campaigner.

 

Finally, Barkspawn stood on his hind-legs and placed his massive front paws on Zevran’s shoulders, looked Zevran in the eye with obvious assessment, then slurped right up the left side of his face. The humongous dog then tried to sprawl atop him like a Mabari blanket, still whuffing and panting and slobbering. Zevran and Winnie laughed brightly, the former trying to shove Barkspawn’s face away from his own, and the latter bouncing in her seat and clapping.

 

Alistair managed a smile that was mostly melancholy- and anxiety-free.

 

Duncan merely watched—all distant coolth and disinterested bystanding—before going back to picking at his granola, and tacitly shutting them all out.

 

#

 

After the children went—reluctantly and poutily, for Winnie, and calmly and dignified for Duncan—to get started on their homework, Alistair and Zevran sat nursing their cold tea. Under the kitchen table, at Zevran’s feet, Barkspawn was sawing whole forests worth of logs.

 

Alistair’s flush deepened slowly under Zevran’s gentle, but unwavering stare. He at last had to break the silence before it broke him. “So. _Warden-Commander of Antiva_ , eh?”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

Smiling a little, Alistair met Zevran’s gaze briefly. “And here I’d heard that a certain corvine order of Antivan assassins had a bounty on your head. _Just_ your head, mind . . . other parts neither desired nor necessary.”

 

“This is entirely true. Or was.” Zevran’s smile widened, but it was grim and mirthless beneath a thin layer of wry charm. “When I ran away from here, I . . . wandered aimlessly for a bit, then realized that I had never been good for much, besides fighting, slaughter, and assassination. So, I decided to return to my beloved Antiva and face the music. That bounty on my head wasn’t going to go away on its own. The only _sure_ way to kill the wyvern is to cut off the head, yes? Yes. So, I silenced the Crow-leadership who wanted to make an example of me—including the guildmaster, himself, as well his lieutenants, and quite a few of my former siblings-in-murder. So much death and so little coin made off it! Tch! But, at least the bounty was taken care of and I was free to enjoy my homeland once more. . . .

 

“Of course, once I finished bleeding the Crows—and once I . . . sobered up—I realized that I could no longer take joy even of my lovely homeland. It was more treasured memory than purpose or goal. And those were two things I needed desperately. So, I made my way to the Anderfels, and the fortress at Weisshaupt to dramatically throw myself at First Warden Calatrava’s lovely feet and on her mercy. What passed for my thinking was that if I was going to return to my old, murderous ways, I could at least do it for a cause that . . . well, you and Audra believed in. I could _be good_ in the only way I knew how: by being bad. I was ready to sign what remained of my life away to the Grey Wardens.”

 

He shrugged gingerly, but eloquently. Alistair’s brows lifted. “Glad to see that all went to plan, then?”

 

Zevran barked a laugh that was only partly amused. “Hardly! I . . . got into a bit of trouble while passing through Nevarra, but made it across the border, into the Anderfels. En route through the Hunterhorn Mountains, that bit of trouble caught up with me and nearly ended me.” He paused and drew his right hand to his sternum, running his fingertips diagonally downward. Following the path of the scar Alistair had noticed earlier. “ _Would have_ if, as you mentioned, they’d bothered to collect my head as a trophy or proof, or whatever. But they left me for dead, _without making certain_ I was on my way to the Maker! Can you _believe_ such an amateur-hour blunder, my martial and magnetic angel? I am still _deeply_ insulted that _this_ was the riff-raff that was paid to end _Zevran Arainai_! Let me tell you, when the time for retribution arrived, I retributed their erstwhile employer with _particular_ zeal!”

 

Laughing—he seemed genuinely amused . . . in a cruel, slightly unhinged way—Zevran wiped under his left eye briefly. Then he sighed and went on before Alistair could find an appropriate response that wasn’t burying his face in his hands and weeping. “I was bleeding out, but slowly—thanks to the cold—when a pair of Wardens on their way to the fortress found me and took care of me. When they were certain I wasn’t as likely to die at any moment, Senior Warden Lindner left her ensign, Warden Ashikk, to look after me while she went to get help from the fortress. Long story short, when I was recovered, I wound up on the road again, with a batch of other raw Warden-recruits. Of the six of us dewy-eyed hopefuls who left Weisshaupt that autumn, three survived the Joining.”

 

Alistair shook his head, his expression bitter, angry, and miserable. Twisted with old devastation. “Unlike Audra’s Joining and mine. She was the only one of _three_ recruits, Duncan’s final conscripts—whom I’d been tasked with leading into the Korcari Wilds to get their darkspawn blood—who then survived the Joining. Likewise, _I_ was the only one of _two_ recruits, who made it to my Joining, at all. _My_ fellow recruit didn’t make it out of the Badlands of the Wilds.”

 

Zevran was frowning, his eyes shining and intent. “This . . . is the first I’m hearing of the details around Audra’s Joining. Or yours.”

 

Alistair shrugged and focused on his milky, cold tea. Took a sip and made a face. “Well. We’re not supposed to talk about it to non-Wardens, you know that, now. And anyway . . . it’s just another set of awful memories one tries one’s best to not-remember.”

 

Silence was Zevran’s response. That and the waiting weight of his steady gaze. Finally, Alistair sighed. “For the purposes of the Joining ritual, the three of us—Warden-Commander Duncan, Warden-Recruit Vasca, and I—attempted to blood a lone genlock separated from its troop. Unfortunately, things went TARFU almost immediately. After we got the blood, we were pursued north, practically into the Chasind Lands, by said troop. They were relentless. We had to fight for our lives several times during a three-day flight I still can only barely recall. Near the end of our flight and our endurance—we’d finally cut down enough of the damned genlocks in that last skirmish that the remainder gave up pursuit—Narasha was badly wounded. Duncan knew of a small Chasind settlement with a Shaman who was well-regarded among the Folk. We made all haste to it, carrying Narasha as quickly and carefully as we could. But even the healing sorcery of a great Chasind Shaman wasn’t enough to . . . anyway.”

 

Alistair cleared his throat, but the distant ache wouldn’t be shifted or banished. Zevran sighed and shook his head. “I take it she didn’t die of her wounds.” It wasn’t a question or even a statement, but a certainty. Alistair nodded.

 

“No, she . . . no. Darkspawn blood had got in her wounds, and . . . when it was obvious she was starting to hear the Call—starting to _change_ —Duncan sent her to her rest.” His face felt cold and stiff and heavy. All of Alistair felt that way, really, and for the first time in some years, he could actively _feel_ the Taint flowing in and twinned with his own blood: a river of corrupt and terrible vitality which sustained even as it destroyed. “We, erm, gave her a funeral with Chasind rites, including the pyre and scattering of her ashes to the four winds. We figured it was better than nothing, since her House and Thaig wouldn’t have wanted to return a Tainted corpse to the Stone, anyway . . . laid to rest among their honored dead. It would have to be enough that, after my Joining was completed, Duncan and I made the journey to Orzammar to tell her people of her . . . heroic dedication and brave last days. Narasha’s parents and the head of House Vasca were present, as was the Lord Shaper _and_ Queen Alva Aeducan—the only queen I’d ever met, at that point. She was very kind and compassionate. Quite a lovely person. She set the, er, _queen-bar_ very high, as far as I’m concerned. . . .”

 

Zevran snorted, then chuckled. “I’ve never met Queen Alva, but she’s well-regarded even among the human nobility of Thedas. She has the love and loyalty of Orzammar—and many of the other Dwarva Thaigs, including some on the surface—as well as their respect.”

 

“She _does_ seem the sort to inspire all that and more, yes.” Alistair managed another smile and aimed it at Zevran for a few moments, before it and his gaze dropped. “Anyway, after a brief stop-over to pay our regards to the Legion of the Dead, Duncan and I returned to the surface and our responsibilities. And that was the road to _my_ Joining and tenure as a Warden. As for the events surrounding Audra’s . . . I’d rather not speak of that, just now.”

 

After studying Alistair’s down-turned face with tangible consideration, Zevran nodded once, his gaze going to his tea. He didn’t, however, sip . . . merely stared.

 

“The road to _my_ Joining led to the Wandering Hills. Not that one has to go far to find pockets of darkspawn in the Anderfels, but the Warden who _officially_ conscripted me, João-Mario Agostinho—an assumed name if _I’ve_ ever heard one—was a rather austere and methodical gentleman. Noble, courageous, and honorable. Also, _devastatingly_ gorgeous and strapping—he reminded me of you, but for skin the color of sard and eyes like carnelian crystals left in the sun. Ah, Alistair . . . he was quite an intriguing—infuriating—man, my Senior Warden. And _possibly_ an exiled prince of Rivain, or so rumor had it. And I’ve _always_ had a . . . _weakness_ for striking, exiled princes with more honor than common sense, as _you_ well know.” Zevran’s brows lifted pointedly as he gave Alistair yet another lingering once-over before meeting his exasperated-fond gaze. “At any rate, Senior Warden Agostinho _insisted_ that for a truly strong and deep Joining, we needed a more _intense_ sort of darkspawn than what was available on the fringes of the more peopled and settled lands. Also, he felt that the journey and quest, themselves, were integral for revealing character. Assuming I actually possessed any. His words, of course, not mine.”

 

“Of course.” Alistair smirked, and Zevran grinned, then went on.

 

“It took less than a day after our last, brief stop among some very dour, but competent Orthlanders for us to encounter a small, but especially vicious cadre of shrieks. We battled them ferociously, and slew them all. I and my fellow recruits survived the battle, but for the youngest: a sweet, but unfortunate Hossberger named Karel. He was felled by a dagger to the throat, and luckily didn’t suffer long. But the Senior Warden . . . Warden Agostinho was _not_ so lucky. He was struck by an arrow in the right chest. The tip was _Tainted_ : treated with darkspawn blood and dark magic. Or so we could only assume, since he . . . began to _transform_ within hours of the battle. To . . . hear the Call before his time. He was becoming a ghoul. He knew it, we all knew it. That knowledge shone in his eyes like despair, and dread for the safety of his recruits _and_ his soul. It _also_ shone in the eyes of said recruits, like indecision . . . and cowardice.”

 

This last was snarled quietly and before Alistair even realized he meant to do it, he’d leaned forward a bit and laid his square, wide hand on Zevran’s slimmer, longer one. It felt chilled and dry, and Alistair sighed as he pulled it closer to him, wrapping his other hand around it, as well. It was simply an attempt to warm and comfort, but Zevran studied him again, with eyes that were increasingly confused and weary and lost.

 

“But you _overcame_ that uncertainty and fear, Zevran. And you did what was _necessary_ ,” Alistair murmured, wanting only to spare Zevran the soul-tortuousness of reliving such a moment. Not to mention the pain of owning up to his own strength, determination, and pragmatism, in the face of the awful and inevitable. That sometimes self-detrimental, but _unshakable_ Zevran conviction about what was _necessary_ , whether it was good or not, whether it was _merciful_ or not.

 

Whether it would _destroy him_ to do what was necessary or not.

 

Zevran scoffed bitterly, tugging halfheartedly on his hand. But Alistair refused to let go and it wasn’t long before Zevran gave up with another tired scoff.

 

“Ah, that! Yes, you may _always_ rely upon Zevran Arainai to do whatever is _necessary_!” Hanging his head and shaking it slowly, Zevran chuckled, soundless and brief. “I’ve always told myself that. So very easily, too. Always _believed it_ easily, as well. But I’d hoped _those_ days—the days of hurting and killing people I . . . cared for, because the alternative looked to be even _worse_ —were over. I’d hoped that the days of having to make excuses for my treachery were behind me. That I’d somehow _outrun_ them. Silly, yes? Yes. As I learned that morning, such can _never_ be the case for me. Not even for all my trying. And that was most of why I left you and the twins, you see.” Zevran looked up and his eyes were mostly dry, but an irritated pinkish-red. “I loved you and still do far too much to risk one of my _necessities_ including harming you, some terrible day. Even now, I fear . . . but back then, I had only just realized that all my running had been for naught. Even as I cut João-Mario’s throat, and watched his rotting blood spill to the ground, and the light and life leave his eyes, I knew that running would never be the answer. That the only real answer was to accept that there may come a time when I might have to draw a line in the sand and either _hold_ to that line . . . or cross it. Just as I’ve crossed every other line when crossing seemed to be a _necessity_. That the choice was ever _mine_ , to decide whether the end could ever justify my means, or if, as I’ve long suspected, my means simply corrupt and warp out of true whatever end results. Looking at my dead mentor’s Tainted corpse, _I knew_ I’d abandoned the only home I’d ever had for a fucking _lie_. For the lie of safety for us all, from my own _extremely_ situational code of ethics and poor decision-making. For the _illusion_ of eventual atonement and absolution.”

 

Zevran looked down at his now-warmed hand in Alistair’s and forced a grimace of a smile. “Ruin and spoilage—misery, and death, itself, dogs my every step, and has since my birth. And even in my absence, those I love most, and who’ve found footholds in my heart suffer because of it. This . . . is something I cannot change and possibly cannot except. But know that I’m ready, now, and _determined_ to try. There is no more necessity before, beyond, or other than you and the twins. _You_ are my only necessities . . . your safety, security, and happiness. I care not for honor, in practice or the abstract. I care only for _you_. For _our children_. And if you let me . . . if it’s not far too little, far too late . . . I will prove that in any way I can. _Any_ way you’ll accept.”

 

Alistair merely stared for a minute, then let out his held breath slowly. “Zevran, I. . . .” he trailed off, having nothing to say to that. No single, standard-bearer emotion from the tempest that swirled within him, as deep as his spirit.

 

“I won’t stay, if you have no wish for my presence in your life, or the children’s. But know that if you _do_ give me a chance, I . . . I won’t push for _more_ than that chance to prove to you that I can be relied upon, and trusted at last,” Zevran said, with the ring of a vow. His eyes seemed to burn, bright and steadfast, into Alistair’s. “I won’t press you for affection or promises or . . . physical contact. Won’t initiate them without your explicit consent. I won’t expect or even hope for more than your tolerance. And I don’t even deserve _that_ , but . . . you always were far more kind and compassionate, than you were clever and perceptive. If I’m lucky, that’s still true.”

 

Alistair blinked. “You romantical _softie_ , you. Get us to my bed, posthaste, before I swoon,” he deadpanned, and Zevran grinned and chuckled. Seeing some of the grimness and self-recrimination lift from that proud, handsome face made Alistair smile a little. Then a little more. “You’re such an arsehole, Zev.”

 

“This is also true,” Zevran admitted, still chuckling, and wiping his eyes again. He seemed somehow lighter than he had since . . . _ever_. Even in the good old days, when he, Audra, and Alistair had all been _so young_ , and happy just to _be together_. “Frankly, I don’t know how or why you and Audra ever put up with my nonsense.”

 

Eyebrows lifting and lips quirking, Alistair let a pointed beat pass, then said: “We put up with you— _and_ your nonsense—because we _loved_ you, you consummate jackass. Though, the, er, cheekbones, pouty lips, and accent certainly made you easier to bear.”

 

Alistair’s joke didn’t so much fall flat, as it never really achieved take-off in the first place. Several emotions warred on Zevran’s face, none of which were amusement. The eventual victor was a cautious sort of hope—the breaking of Zevran’s promise not to do even that without permission. Though for once, Alistair hadn’t the heart to be punitive over _this_ broken promise.

 

“ _Loved_?” Zevran echoed without _readable_ inflection. “Past-tense, then?”

 

Alistair’s brow furrowed, and he took a moment to figure out what was true for him, before he said something that wasn’t.

 

“Wherever Audra is— _if she still is_ —I’m certain she still loves you, Zev. More than ever.” Alistair held Zevran’s gaze and didn’t bother to shield his own. “In life, that love was fierce, and without reserve or regret. And I doubt even _death_ is powerful enough to change _Audra Amell’s_ heart, regarding the residents thereof.”

 

Zevran’s expression had been going slowly, but steadily defenseless since Alistair had started speaking, and now tears fell from those wide, hope-glowing, burnished-bronze eyes.

 

“Alistair, I,” he began, in a strange, thick voice. Then he cleared his throat again and wiped his face impatiently. “Thank you, my friend. _You, too,_ are . . . _someone Audra Amell loved fiercely_ , and beyond reserve and regret. _You are_ someone whom _I love fiercely_. Beyond reserve and regret. Beyond hope and expectation. I love you because even if I _could_ remember what it was like to _not_ love you, I certainly wouldn’t wish to _revert_ to such a benighted state. Even if my love is never again to be requited or wanted, I am _better_ for feeling it. Because it gives me purpose and direction. Meaning and definition. _Strength and hope_. It is the most _beautiful_ agony I have ever felt, this love. Because . . . there is _no end_ to the _better_ to which I aspire, for love of you and the children.”

 

Flushed and stymied well-past sputtering—his vision doubling, trebling, clearing as tears fell, then repeating the whole blamed process—Alistair inhaled. “I don’t . . . why are you saying these things _now_? _Really_? After all these difficult, painful, lonely years, and when it surely _can’t_ come to anything significant or lasting . . . _why_ are you saying these things? Zevran . . . _why are you here_?”

 

Zevran covered Alistair’s hands—which still held Zevran’s right—with his left one. It, too, was chilly, but began to warm even as Zevran chose his next words. “I . . . was the worst sort of coward for walking away like I did. I doubt there is any way to truly make amends or atone for that, but if you allow me, I will never stop trying. Any further apologies I make would probably sound trite and overdone—more poetry than real pathos—but if you wish that of me, I will tell you and show you in as many different ways as I’m able. But even _that’s_ not why I’m here, Alistair. I’m here because I never should have _left_. Because I neither fit in, nor want to fit in any place where _you_ are _not_. Because I’m tired of being alone and scared, of constant suffering and unhappiness. I’m _here_ because _this place_ . . . no, because _you are_ —” Zevran’s lips twisted with bitter irony. “*I'd neither a guest nor a trespasser be. _In this place I belong_ . . . that belongs also to me?”

 

Alistair’s breath caught, and his heart skipped a few beats in instantaneous recall, association, and understanding. More tears fell, far too many for holding in or wiping away, and despite his compromised vision, he held Zevran’s broken-open, broken-promise-gaze for as long as he could bear.

 

Finally, as one quiet bit of certainty struggled free of Alistair’s internal maelstrom, he nodded, and freed his gaze and hands from Zevran’s. Cautiously, but gently, and without animus—for the moment—and stood. _Ponderously and slowly_ , for he had no intention of rushing the beginnings of even so tiny a step forward, in such a twisting and uncharted direction.

 

Not even when almost helplessly prey—admittedly—to the thrall of Zevran’s reverent and yearning gaze.

 

“I . . . suppose we shall see, at that. But we can speak more of riddles later, _if you wish._ Once the children are a-bed. _This_ evening, _you_ get the honor of deciding which of the many offerings from the take-away menus on the fridge sounds most promising.” Alistair bit his lip, blushed, and looked away from the questions and hopes in Zevran’s wide eyes. Then he started—also ponderously and slowly—for the hallway, but paused after a few steps. “Er _. Except_ for anything on the menu from the Antivan _ristorante_. Yes, I know, pizza and such are staple dishes of your homeland, la-di-da, but here, it’s for Saturdays and reward-dinners _only_. Non-negotiable house-rule, that. Erm, yes. Ahem. In the meantime, I’ll . . . get the spare room ready for you.”

 

Alistair didn’t stay longer, to process Zevran’s reaction, or even witness it. But as he strode out of the kitchen, Zevran’s palpable, breaking wave- _relief_ —and a few soft, huffing sounds, like choked-back sobs—were impossible to miss. They followed Alistair down the hall, all meaning and foundation, and shined on him. They _warmed_ him like sunlight. Like _hope_ : a bruised, but as-yet-unbeaten champion, striving against the demons of loneliness and despair that lingered in a battleground heart.

 

**# # #**

 

***Shartan’s riddle from _Dragon Age: Origins_ —to which the answer is _home_ —and the inspiration for the title of this piece.**

**Author's Note:**

> Powered most notably by: [The Very Best of the Smiths](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ntCRZoMFIY) and [The Best of Annie Lennox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTdIh5BQeSE). They seemed to suit the main pairing :-)
> 
> [Say “hi” to the beets on the Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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